


Phases

by auroradream, unpossible



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Community: pod_together, M/M, Podfic Available, Podfic Length: 2-2.5 Hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-08 15:12:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1945905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auroradream/pseuds/auroradream, https://archiveofourown.org/users/unpossible/pseuds/unpossible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We weren’t going to get out of the car,” Stiles says again, and big fucking help that is now, with Scott’s side shredded by a fucking sabre-tooth tiger or whatever.</p><p>“Just tell me what happened,” his Dad says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vine Moon, Beacon Hills

**Author's Note:**

> Written by unpossible  
> Read by auroradream

[Download MP3 File](http://auroradream.parakaproductions.com/Podfic/Phases%20by%20unpossible.mp3) | [Download M4B File](http://auroradream.parakaproductions.com/Podfic/Phases-unpossible%20auroradream.m4b)

**“When there’s nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire”**

 

 

Stiles’s hands start shaking about seven seconds after Scott is whisked away behind automatic doors into Trauma Room 2. He pretty much falls into a seat in the waiting area and spends a good few minutes wonder which will be worse – if Mrs McCall finds him first, or his Dad.

Stiles’s life being what it is, they arrive within moments of each other. Considering Mrs McCall only had to come from the third floor medical ward, that says a _lot_ about Dad’s ability to speed through the streets of Beacon Hills. Lights and sirens, Stiles imagines. _Shit_.

 _“Stiles,”_ Mrs McCall says, voice shaking, and he blinks up at her.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” he bursts out miserably, realizes a half-second later that she couldn’t give a shit about his apologies right now, and instead raises one of his trembling hands to point in the direction they took Scott. With his hand at eye level, he’s staring straight at the blood, tacky but still glistening, _Scott’s blood_ , and yep, that’s about it, he’s on his feet and staggering for the bathrooms as Scott’s Mom hightails it in the opposite direction.

Stiles crashes into Dad’s chest as he reaches the doors, and Dad, thank God, doesn’t waste time with talk, just shoves the door open and ushers him inside, gets him into a cubicle so he can heave up the fully loaded pizza he and Scott had shared right before Stiles had his brilliant idea.

When it feels like his internal organs have all exited his body, Stiles flushes it away and leans back, slumps for a second against the wall and then hauls himself upright. _Time to face the music,_ he thinks, and runs the back of his hand over his mouth as he lurches for the basins. He’s leaving traces of blood everywhere he goes, so the first thing he does is wash his hands like he’s prepping for surgery. When he’s done, he has a whole new appreciation for Lady Macbeth.

Dad, silent, hands him a wad of paper towels and Stiles washes his face clean of tears and other fluids, almost cracks into sobs as he feels his father press a second, damp wad of towels over the back of his neck, right where it’s fever-hot.

“It’s my fault, Dad,” he croaks it. “My stupid idea.”

Dad sighs, near silent. “Come on, kid,” he says, voice full of worry. “Let’s get out of here.”

Dad doesn’t take him back to the waiting area, he commandeers an office instead and they sit, face to face, Stiles slumped over and staring at the floor.

“I know you’re upset, son,” Dad says, “but I need you to talk to me now.”

Stiles swallows, manages a nod. Yep. Witness statement and all that, seeing as how Stiles has dragged Scott into an actual crime this time.

“We were just driving around,” he mumbles. Tears are threatening, and he swallows hard and forces himself to be clear. “I thought – no humans had been hurt, I never thought- we weren’t even supposed to be getting out of the _car_ , Dad,” and he risks a glance up, sees the resignation and sorrow on his Dad’s face, and God, he deserves so much worse than that.

“So, just to be clear, you thought you’d drive around the Preserve and look for the animal that’s behind these attacks,” Dad says, voice very calm. _Official_ levels of calm. “Despite the warnings distributed around town, and the very specific conversation I had with you about police work and how you and Scott are not, in fact, the Hardy Boys.”

“We weren’t going to get out of the car,” Stiles says again, and big fucking help that is _now_ , with Scott’s side shredded by a fucking sabre-tooth tiger or whatever.

“Just tell me what happened,” his Dad says.

Stiles nods, licks his lips and stares down at the floor as he tries to get his thoughts together. Simple facts, not justifications. “We went in past the picnic areas,” he begins. Dad already knows who and what. “Took the old fire trail east.”

Dad nods. He’s writing this down now.

“Scott needed to take a leak,” Stiles says. “I pulled over. There was nothing – no sounds or anything.”

“No animal sounds at all?”

Stiles shakes his head, “None. I mean, looking back now, not being able to hear any other animals probably means it was nearby, right? All the other animals were hiding.” he bites his lip. _I should have thought of that_. “But I don’t know, we just thought – anything that brings down a deer would have to be a fair size, it’d make some noise. There should be growling or something, there should have been some fucking _warning_ -”

“Stiles,” his Dad says. He puts a hand on Stiles’s knee.

Right. Can’t lose it now.

He takes a deep breath. “So Scott got out and found a tree. I was messing around on my phone but my window was down. I’d have _heard_ if there was anything, I’d have-” he catches himself before Dad has to intervene again. He takes another careful breath. “Scott finished and, y’know, he turned around to come back. He pulled his phone out of his pocket on the way, he was only... I don’t know, like, ten yards from the car, Dad, and then he stopped because his inhaler fell out when he grabbed his phone and he didn’t want to lose it, they’re like, seventy bucks, y’know?”

“Yeah, son,” Dad says, soothing, “I know.”

It’s a stupid thing to think about now. About Scott’s voice, and how the last proper sentence Stiles heard from him was about his stupid fucking inhaler, which is probably still lying on the grass somewhere. In a puddle of blood. Stiles swallows.

“So he bends down to pick up the inhaler, I think he must have been using his phone like a flashlight to see it on the ground, I mean the Jeep’s headlights were still on but he’d gone behind the jeep and so I didn’t see, I couldn’t, there was nothing _to_ see because then he just screamed, just fucking, _screamed_ , Dad, I mean I jumped so high I slammed into the car door,” he touches the tender spot above his temple, “and I busted out of the Jeep in like, half a _second_ but there was nothing _there_ , whatever it was had just, like, gone, just, fucking _gone_ and he was bleeding, shit, there was just so much blood everywhere-”

“Ssh, Stiles,” Dad is saying now, which makes no sense because he wanted to know, he _asked_ , and that’s when Stiles realizes he’s crying, and he was maybe kind of shouting because now he’s wrapped up against his Dad’s chest, like a little kid and Jesus, he feels like a little kid right now because _Scott_ , oh God, Scott.

Stiles's mind, for once in his life, goes very, very quiet.

Scott. Scott. _Scott_.

 

  


  



	2. Vine Moon, waning, Beacon Hills

 

Stiles forces his feet to move, one after the other, across the hospital parking lot. He’s getting _way_ too familiar with this place, first with the ER and the ICU and now the surgical ward, which has no catchy acronym, just lots of unhappy patients subsisting on jello and pain meds. And then his feet just- _Stop_.

Right there, on the hood of his Jeep, is a weird symbol – could even be the one Stiles had glimpsed in the case file that had started this whole mess. The symbol that had been carved into the side of that deer. Stiles freezes. He can scent the blood, thick and heavy in the air, and oh my fucking Christ is that _entrails?_

There are body parts. On his Jeep.

He just stands there and stares, and then there’s a polite cough. Like Stiles farted in church, or he’s holding up the line at Starbucks.

“Too much?” The delicate query comes from a shadowy figure at the edge of the parking lot. It’s man-shaped, but it’s not a man. Stiles doesn’t know where the certainty comes from, but he’s certain, all right. Just like he’s certain Scott’s attacker is standing right in front of him.

“You-” he chokes out. From the shadows blue eyes glow inhumanely bright, like luminescent coral in an inky tropical sea. Stiles can’t- he can’t _think_.

 _Inhumanely_. The word seems to echo in Stiles’s head.

“Hello, Stiles,” the figure says.

Inhumane. Not. Human. But _talking_.

“You’re not- what- what _are_ you,” he manages. He’s shaking, freezing cold right in his guts and his hands are numb and his brain- he can’t think. _It knows my name. How the_ fuck _does it know my name?_ The slowly-healing gashes on Scott’s torso flash through his head and his hand fists around his keys.

“Nothing you’ve ever seen before,” the voice says, silky and threatening. “Aren’t you curious? It’s quite a mind you’ve got in there, I’ve been watching you with _such_ interest, Stiles. Isn’t your brain just running at top speed right now, wheels within wheels?”

“Not currently,” Stiles manages, but a beat later he realizes this supervillain monologuing bullshit is actually helping because he’s _having a conversation_ , something normal, something to cling to, and his mind comes back online in one huge rush-

“You _mauled Scott,”_ he bursts out, “you- fucking- killed all those animals and left them to be found– what _are_ you? Why the fuck would- What do you _want?_ ”

“Ah, that’s just the question,” the thing says, but from the other side of the Jeep now and _shit_ , when had he- how had _it_ moved so fast? Stiles’s lizard brain is shrieking warnings at him, he is in the presence of an apex predator right now and he has precisely nothing by way of weapons, if this thing can even _be_ hurt.

His phone is in his pocket but that seems extremely far away considering how fast it just moved. He stumbles backward, trying to keep the Jeep between them but he’s clumsy and way too slow. All the evidence from the case file flashes past his eyes. It has claws, obviously – can it change shapes? Shift into some kind of – holy fucking mythballs, Batman, a _werewolf?_

“What am I and what do I want?” it says, musingly.

“Why _Scott_ ,” Stiles finds himself croaking out. If he’s gonna die - and he really thinks he is - he wants at least to _know._ “Why did you-”

“Well, you dangled him in front of me like a big fat worm on a hook, Stiles. I mean - wasn’t that your plan? I assumed you knew it would take something more tempting than a _deer_ to lure out the monster in the woods. And he’s certainly no great loss, I mean- weak lungs and that pedestrian mind. A friend like that is only going to hold you back once you’re ready to shake the dust of Beacon Hills from your feet-”

“You _shut up,”_ Stiles grinds out, completely forgetting everything except his rage. He lurches forward, fists clenched, “Shut the fuck up about Scott _right now_.”

 _“Yesss,”_ it says, and it’s smiling, Stiles can tell without looking that it’s smiling, he’s pleased the monster somehow, which cannot be good. “ _There_ it is. Loyalty. You’re clever _and_ brave, Stiles, which really should be enough to save you, if it weren’t for that infernal loyalty which is going to get you into trouble every time.” He watches the monster’s head shake slowly, side to side, chiding, like a disappointed parent.

“What do you _want_ ,” Stiles says again, because this time his much-vaunted mind is actually working, and if this thing is bothering to talk to him then it wants something, or Stiles would be bleeding out on the pavement right now.

 _Dad_ , a voice in the back of his head is shrieking. Stiles can’t die. It would _destroy_ Dad.

“I want attention, Stiles,” the voice says. “From someone specific. And if animal attacks aren’t doing the job, I’m afraid I need something a little more... high-octane.”

“That’s why you attacked Scott.”

That gets him a low, pleased chuckle.

“You were trying to kill him.”

“I accomplished precisely what I intended, Stiles,” the monster says.

 _But why not kill Scott?_ Stiles has to wonder. He is going to have the world’s biggest panic attack after this is over because how is he possibly pondering something like that. How has his life become a place where _Why not just kill him?_ is an actual question.

“And what is that – what _did_ you accomplish?” he manages to get out.

Stiles’s eyes have adjusted enough to see the human-looking face crease in a smile. “You don’t really need to know those details, Stiles. If I’m honest, you didn’t really need to know any of this. It’s only that I’m surprised to find that – I _like_ you. It’s been a long time since I met a human I actually found interesting enough to bother with.” The head tilts. “If it helps at all, I’m truly hoping you survive all of this.”

And with that _not at all creepy and ominous_ statement, the asshole is just- _gone_. Not like, _poof!_ vanished, Nightcrawler-style or anything, Stiles’s eyes are good enough to see that he simply moves at superhuman speed. But he’s sure as shit not going to be able to catch the guy, even if he could make himself climb inside the Jeep with the gore-fest splattered all over the hood.

He gets his phone out super-quick, and manages to dial his Dad before the panic cuts off his air.

 

 


	3. Willow Moon, Beacon Hills

 

Alan hardly needs his wards to let him know he has a visitor approaching. Anyone with eyes could see the Stilinski boy was getting in far too deep with the kind of trouble that is both savage and unforgiving. And Beacon Hill’s impressive grapevine has given Alan ample warning of the latest catastrophe: Lydia Martin, found injured and unconscious under the bleachers after last night’s lacrosse game.

It’s one step too far. Hunters will begin arriving in Beacon Hills at any moment. The Argents, of course, are already here – only three of them, for now – but there’ll be more, if he knows the Argents at all.

Alan takes a long, steady breath. His own neutrality is, perhaps, not the strongest at the moment. Scott McCall has the makings of a fine young man. Impulsive, yes, but with a deeply loving heart. It had taken many long hours of meditation for Alan to let go of his anger at the way the boy had been dragged from innocent bystander to victim, at the slowly-healing wounds in Scott’s side that he will now bear as scars for life. But Alan has done the work, he’s accepted the way things are and he won’t endanger the Balance in Beacon Hills for simple revenge.

The clinic door flies open and he gets his first surprise. Stiles isn’t mid-flail, nor does he launch into his habitual cover of sarcasm. Something more has happened, then. Something worse than what the gossips have uncovered.

“You said,” Stiles begins, licks his lips and glances away. He carefully closes the door behind him and flips the lock. “You said you could help me with my... furry problem.”

“I can offer you advice,” Alan corrects gently. “I cannot act in this matter.”

Stiles’s mouth works and he folds his arms over his chest. “So, what? You’re... supernatural Switzerland?”

Alan doesn’t let his amusement show. “The UN, if you prefer. An impartial observer.”

The boy’s mouth is a hard line. “You’re honestly just going to stand there and _observe_ this asshole tearing Beacon Hills apart? Killing animals and _attacking Scott,_ attacking _Lydia?”_

“I am going to fulfil my role, Mr Stilinski. I can assure you that these attacks will not be without consequences.”

The huff of air is far too cynical for one so young. And Alan needs to move this along before the boy becomes more agitated and puts all that potential to destructive use.

It is a rare stroke of good fortune for Beacon Hills that Sheriff Stilinski was the one to raise this child. A spark with such intelligence and courage is rare, but rarer still is that the boy’s heart is wide open with love, that his power is likely to be the slave of his protective instincts rather than ego or ambition.

 _If_ , that is, the problem currently plaguing the town doesn’t sink his claws into Stiles first.

“This is mountain ash,” Alan said just as the boy opens his mouth to argue. Instead his mouth snaps shut and he stars down at the innocuous jar Alan slides toward him.

“Ash.” He gives Alan a _you gotta be shitting me_ look.

“Werewolves cannot cross a mountain ash line if it is laid down by one possessing power and belief.”

“What?”

“You are what is known as a spark, Mr Stilinski. You have the potential for power within you, but right now, more important than that, is that you have the ability to lay down a line of mountain ash around your home, for example. Around the McCall house. Or the Sheriff’s station.”

He has the boy’s attention now.

“I can,” he stops, swallows. “I can protect them?”

“You can leave them some measure of protection, yes.”

“ _Leave_ them.” Those amber eyes flick to Alan’s, narrowing.

Oh, he _is_ quick. “You’re in danger as long as you remain in the wolf’s territory.”

“You honestly expect me to just fuck off out of town and _leave my D_ -”

“You cannot defeat the wolf on your own,” Alan says calmly. He wishes he felt as calm as he sounds. “And if you remain here you will only find yourself dancing to his tune. My advice to you is to deny him the opportunity to make further use of you. Go and seek help from those qualified to give it.”

Stiles is breathing quickly now, eyes down. “You don’t get it,” he says miserably, and here it is, the monster’s latest move. Alan takes firm hold of his reactions.

“He’s killed another animal, but this time – he must have stolen my phone. He dropped it a few yards away from the body.” He has to swallow hard before he can admit, “They’re looking at me as a _suspect_.”

Alan doesn’t betray his shock. He hadn’t thought Peter Hale would drag this mess even further into the mundane world. Surely, _surely_ Laura Hale has heard of these events by now. If this continues, other packs will surely take notice and then events will spiral out of _everyone’s_ control.

“If I run-” the boy continues, half-choked.

 _You’ll look guilty_. Alan doesn’t say it. They both know.

“My Dad-” he stops, swallows hard. “I mean, I was there when Scott was hurt. Then there was the weirdness with my Jeep and the entrails... I heard two of the deputies talking. The Mayor wants Dad to call in profilers or something. The DA’s making noises about conflicts of interest. If I run-”

“And if you do not,” Alan says inexorably, “He _will_ find a way to make this worse.” For a moment he thinks Stiles will continuing raging, will argue, then he raises dull, helpless eyes to Alan’s.

Ah. Yes. Alan had almost forgotten, but this boy has known grief. He understands, as few teenagers do, that things, _can_ , in fact, _always_ get worse.

Alan lays a hand on the jar of mountain ash. “You make a circle with the ash. As you do, you must infuse it with your belief that your father, that Scott, will be safe.”

Stiles just stares at him.

“Do you want them to be safe, Stiles?” Alan asks, voice suddenly sharp.

Stiles flushes in fury, “Of _course_ I fucking-”

“Then you must infuse your circle with the strength of your emotions. All the anger you’re feeling right now, the need to protect them. If your belief is strong enough – he will not be able to cross the line of ash. He will not be able to harm them.”

Stiles swallows, drops his gaze to where Alan’s hand lies across the lid of the jar.

He slides a piece of paper across the bench to the boy. “Here you will find someone who can help you harness that spark. I will let them know you are coming. The best advice I have for you, Mr Stilinski, is to leave, and do it soon.” He hesitates, then lays a credit card on top of the paper. “Take this card, and use it if you need it.” Witness he might be, but he’s not about to push a sixteen-year old into running away from home without some kind of safety net.

Stiles is likely too numb with shock to react. He stares down at the counter and then, moving like an old man, reaches out to gather up the card, the paper and then the mountain ash.

Alan waits until the boy has stumbled out into the gathering dark before he sits down. Not for the first time, he is grateful he doesn’t have werewolf senses. But then, he doesn’t need werewolf hearing to know that the boy in the Jeep outside is crying, heartbroken. Doesn’t need a werewolf nose to sense overwhelming helplessness… or fear.

Slowly, methodically, Alan snaps a pencil into tiny pieces, never once letting his frustration show in anything but the movement of his fingers. A madman is tearing his home to pieces. And Alan, as always, can only Witness.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Beech Moon, Beacon Hills

 

 

 

 

Mark’s legs are shaking as he walks across the parking lot. The Fosterville Sheriff is paying him a professional courtesy by calling him in, because this is as personal as it gets, and every single person watching him walk across the asphalt knows it.

The Jeep’s not damaged. No sign of an accident, nor, the Sheriff had told him carefully, are there any obvious signs of mechanical trouble. It had been abandoned, and Mark’s head and heart don’t know quite what to make of that. He’s cycling wildly between hope and despair right now, pretty much the same as he has been since he got home one terrible day last week and found Stiles’s note.

He touches his shirt pocket in reflex, not that he needs to see the paper to remember what it says.

 

> _Dad_
> 
> _I’m so sorry. I didn’t do any of this, I swear._
> 
> _I know my leaving looks bad, and I wish I could think of another way._
> 
> _I know you’ll look for me no matter what I say in this letter, but please, please Dad, be careful. And maybe let the occasional stray vegetable wander onto your plate?_
> 
> _I’m trying so hard to get back home, and I’m sorry for putting you through this. I hope one day you’ll forgive me._
> 
> _I love you,_
> 
> _Stiles_

 

Mark exchanges a silent nod with the Deputy that’s waiting by the vehicle, and the guy fades back to the tape line as Mark tugs on a glove and reaches for the door handle. He yanks open the drivers’ side door and feels the familiar grind of the hinge halfway through opening that has been there ever since Stiles managed to spill a jar full of ball bearings inside the Jeep. _Dad, don’t even_ ask, he’d said rolling his eyes. _One word – Scott_.

And that familiar catch kills all hope that this isn’t Stiles’s Jeep.

Not _his_ child’s vehicle, abandoned in a neighbouring town, in a busy shopping mall so that it had taken days and days before it was noticed and reported. _Smart kid, my boy_ , Mark thinks with a terrible mix of pride and anguish. Doesn’t want to be found, won’t be found easily, if at all.

He just stands there, hand on the door, choking on the familiar scent of junk food and sweaty lacrosse gear and one of those god-awful pine tree things that’s at least fifteen months old.

Mark’s son is gone. And all he has left to cling to is a growing pile of evidence, and the whispers around town that are building to a dull roar the longer this goes on.

 

 

He gets drunk that night – horribly, _horribly_ drunk like he hasn’t done in years, not since Claudia-

Nope. Still not drunk enough to finish that thought.

Still, just the fragment of it has him choking, dry and bitter, and he cries unashamedly into his cupped hands. Empty house all around him – no wife, no son – what the hell does he have anymore that is reason enough to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

What the hell is the point of _any_ of this?

Mark hasn’t asked these kinds of questions in years.

Not since he realized that Stiles was getting used to putting his drunken father to bed late at night. Not since he’d missed work three days running from sheer apathy. Not since Melissa McCall had stormed up the stairs one winter morning and ripped him a new one for failing his newly-motherless son.

He’d longed for an answer every day, for _some_ fucking reason why Claudia should be gone from this world when drink-drivers and wife-beaters and child-molesters got to live. But even as he’d tuned out Melissa and clutched at his head in the weak winter light, Mark had known that asking the question was only going to lead down fifty miles of bad road and right over a cliff.

 

 

Mark wakes in the morning with a monster hangover, phone still clutched in his hand. He stares down at it, gritty-eyed, and wonders if whatever the hell he slurred into the phone last night will ever reach Stiles, and if it does, will it make things better or worse.

He _has_ to believe Stiles will hear it – that Stiles is _still alive to hear it_. He has to believe he will get the chance to apologise, to rage, to listen and to do something about whatever it is that has driven his son away.

He’s already lost Claudia, already lost his faith in the basic fairness of life. He’ll give up one hell of a lot more if it will get him Stiles, safe and sound, in return.

 

 

 


	5. Beech Moon, waxing, Kenny Springs

_No way._

Derek takes a slow, careful breath and drives past the bus station for the third time that day. He doesn’t look at the skinny kid hunched just inside the glass doors, one knee bouncing in a kind of nervous tic.

First time Derek had driven past the kid had been just stumbling off the bus and onto the sidewalk, hefting a bag over one shoulder and glancing around as if asking himself how the hell he came to be in a tiny town like Kenny Springs, Arizona of all places.

Derek had noticed the kid, but he’d driven by without any hesitation. He wouldn’t have given the kid another thought if the trade section of the hardware store hadn’t already been full of pickup trucks, lined up all the way out to the kerb. So he’d headed downtown to the diner and worked his way through a stack of pancakes, since he hadn’t bothered with breakfast that morning.

On his second run past the bus station, while the truck idled at a red light, Derek had overheard the kid on the payphone, mumbling to himself about overpriced rooms. The thread of desperation underlying his voice had caught Derek’s attention and he’d turned his head, taken a long look this time.

Derek didn’t even have to wonder. Rumpled clothes, tired eyes, general air of hopelessness.

He turned his head away and set his jaw. He wasn’t doing this. Not again. Laura would prop her head on one hand – not that he’d see, not over the phone, but he’d know anyway – and she’d murmur helplessly, “Derek. _Another_ one?”

She wouldn’t push him for _why_ , at least. Alpha or not, she had enough mercy for that. But she’d bring up the others.

Annie with the nose ring and the light fingers that had liberated Derek’s wallet. Jack with the anger issues who had punched Derek in the face before disappearing into the night, leaving his GED unfinished. Cho, who had slept on Derek’s couch for five weeks before he’d cracked and gone back to his junkie ex-girlfriend. And Deena, who had first tried to sleep with Derek, then tried to blackmail him, then broken down and admitted to years of abuse by her father and uncle both. Her, at least, he’d been able to truly help. She was living in LA now, attending community college and sending him emails every month.

The light had gone green and Derek had driven on, eyes locked on the road.

The paunchy guy at the hardware store had the order ready, and he’d been happy enough to let Derek load everything with minimal help, though Derek was careful not to lift too much more than any young, fit human male would. The Arizona packs had managed to stay under the radar for decades, he wasn’t going to screw that up.

So he’d signed the invoice and closed up the back of the truck, driven away with a casual wave. At the intersection, he’d hesitated, sighed, and taken right hand turn out of the driveway. He’d have to circle the block, but... it was easier than finding a break in traffic in the middle of school pickup time, Derek told himself.

So on his third, totally accidental trip down Main Street, Derek is _not_ _looking_ at the kid sheltering from the brisk winds inside the grimy glass box of the bus station. He can’t help but hear things, of course, as the automatic doors open and close... _closing up soon, dear... recommend any place... any jobs going..._

The lights change and Derek sits there. Stares at the green light. There’s no-one behind him to lean on their horn and get impatient, not that it happens much in Kenny Springs anyway. Folks around here are more likely to get out of their car and walk up to check you’re okay.

Yellow light.

“Okay, well. Thanks,” the kid calls over his shoulder, dejected, as he steps onto the street. He waves a little to the lady who is already locking the door behind him, the gesture more like he needed something to do with his hands than anything else. His face comes into view as he turns, revealing a wide mouth, rigid with despair.

Red light.

The kid slopes across the parking lot, scanning everywhere at once, hands in his pockets moving in a way that hint he’s running something through his fingers.

 _Probably his very last dime_ , Derek’s stupid, overactive conscience whispers.

The kid passes the overpriced cafe and gallery, then a used bookstore, and disappears around the corner just as the light turns green. Derek swallows and steps on the gas. Not his problem. He drives three blocks, slowly, then turns reluctantly into the parking lot of the grocery store. He needs a few things. Sure, it could wait until tomorrow or the next day, but Derek’s in town now, why not?

When he emerges from the store he glances around once, sees nothing but familiar faces, and sighs as he dumps the bag on the floor in front of the passenger seat. Back in the driver’s seat, he clutches at the wheel.

Fuck. He’s never going to sleep tonight if he doesn’t know where the kid is. Kenny Springs isn’t exactly downtown Detroit, but Derek knows what someone looks like when they’re losing hope, when they’re trapped by life. He can’t stand seeing a _teenager_ look like that, he just _can’t_.

He cruises around for a few minutes, windows wound down, and it doesn’t take him long to recognize the voice, because he’s a _moron,_ and he’s apparently gone and fucking imprinted on a teenage runaway.

_-guys, come on, I’m not looking for trouble-_

Derek pulls over in a hurry and jumps out of the truck. He rounds a building at a half-jog to find the kid backed into a corner in a quiet laneway behind the library, two bored teenagers cutting off his exit routes.

Derek scuffs his boots deliberately against the asphalt and one of the locals jumps, skittering sideways.

The other, bigger one, glances over his shoulder and gives a bad-tempered shrug, a physical _fuck off_ that has Derek narrowing his eyes, then smiling.

Oh, now he’s going to _enjoy_ this.

“What’s going on?” he asks without slowing his approach.

The kid flicks a glance at him, relief filling his face, but he’s smart enough – or he’s been bullied enough – to keep his focus on the two teenagers crowding him up against the wall.

“Nothing,” the bigger bully says. “We’re having a conversation.” He doesn’t look at Derek. Probably his parents are Somebody in this one-horse town.

Derek turns his gaze on the other one, who takes a half-step away, then freezes, torn between loyalty and common sense.

“What?” Derek says. “This private property or something?”

There’s no answer, just some nervous eye-darting. Derek listens carefully, and now that there’s some help in sight, his runaway’s heart kicks back to a normal fast rhythm, backing off from the previous, panicked levels.

“If I were you, I’d go now,” Derek advises the hesitant one with his habitual gruffness. “Sticking around really isn’t going to make this suddenly all work out okay. You don’t even have the advantage of numbers anymore.”

“Uh, Jared-” the boy says, voice rising, eyeing Derek uncertainly. He seems unable to look away from Derek’s shoulders, his arms, which have built up nicely since Derek started construction work.

“Stay where you are, Teddy,” the bigger one says. Derek wonders briefly what the hell the newcomer could have said or done to piss the guy off this much, in such a short amount of time.

“You know, it seems to me maybe this is a good time for all of us to practise forgiveness and go our separate ways-” the kid begins, sliding sideways as he gestures, and then a few things happen all at once.

“Shut your fuckin’ _mouth-_ ” Jared says, moving in.

“I’m gonna-” begins Teddy, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

Derek is moving even as Jared reaches out to grab the kid’s arm, and his larger hand closes over the back of Jared’s neck, gripping harder than a human ever could. A shocked grunt punches out of Jared and his hand falls to his side, even as the kid brings his own hands up between them to fend off whatever is coming. He also lets his knees sag so that his body drops low, and mostly out of harm’s way. Smart, Derek thinks approvingly.

“You should have taken the chance to leave,” Derek says to the asshole caught in his grip.

A stream of filth leaves Jared’s mouth, kind of undercut by the breathlessness there. Derek’s fingers and thumb dig into the sides of his neck, not hard enough to damage, or even bruise, probably, but Derek knows from experience it isn’t a pleasant sensation. Pressure on the top of the spine, either side of the airway. It’s eerie.

“What the hell did you say to him?” Derek asks the kid, who is still sidling away. Jared kicks out at Derek with a grunt and he absorbs the blow to his knee without really feeling it.

Big amber eyes blink at him. “I, uh. Commented on his t-shirt?”

Derek glances down. It’s Clark Kent, halfway through ripping off his suit, with the caption _Awesome Like Me_.

Yeah. He can just imagine the fodder that might have offered to this kid with the mobile mouth and intelligent eyes. Especially considering Jared is a certain... _type_. Captain-of-the-football-team, boyfriend of the head cheerleader type. Blond. Good-looking. Arrogant. Definitely _not_ the type to let a smart-ass remark slide by.

“You _asshole_ ,” Jared spits the words as he struggles under Derek’s grip, trying to land an elbow or a punch, “you’re gonna be sorry-”

Derek sighs and drops Jared to his knees with the steady application of pressure. “Shut up,” he says flatly. Jared swallows audibly and shuts up.

“I’m sure you’re used to getting your own way,” Derek says. He flicks his eyes toward the kid, who is still shuffling away, torn between running and listening. “I’ll bet your Dad’s the Sheriff,” the kid twitches and freezes at that. Derek goes on, “Or your Mom’s the Mayor, or your Grampa’s the DA or the high school principal. Whatever. I really don’t give a shit.”

The kid has gone silent, still watching as Jared struggles, panting now.

“In twenty seconds I’m going to let go of your neck and walk away. In those twenty seconds you’re going to think carefully about the fact that I am bigger and stronger and meaner than you, and decide whether you want to get the shit kicked out of you and then have to explain that to your buddies and your parents.”

He waits a beat. “I don’t want to beat up a teenager, but I am _not_ ,” he gives Jared a hard shake for emphasis, _“_ Going to take. Your _shit_. Got it?”

They all stand in silence, then, and after he’s counted ten, Derek flings Jared aside like the wolf would toss a dead rabbit. The teen stumbles to his hands and knees, falls sideways with a relieved grunt, and Derek turns on his heel without haste, walking away. Wide-eyed, the runaway hastens to join him, glancing back over his shoulder the way Derek doesn’t have to. He can still hear Jared’s laboured breathing, the stream of swearwords spilling out between each breath. He hasn’t gotten to his feet yet.

They reached the street and Derek turns to the left, headed for the truck, the kid still sticking close and watching warily over his shoulder. They’re fifty yards from it when he thinks, _fuck it_ , and speaks.

“What’s your name, kid?”

He stumbles and glances up at Derek. “Oh. St- _uh_ -Steve,” he manages.

“Right,” Derek says dryly. But the kid hiding his real name does at least tell Derek _something_. Could be he’s running from real trouble, and not just throwing a tantrum over being stuck with a PS3 or some shit like that. Doesn’t make any difference to what Derek’s about to do. If ‘Steve’ is bringing trouble with him, Derek will handle it, like always.

“Look,” Derek says, and gestures to the truck. He tries for some semblance of a reassuring smile. “I’m doing some prep work on a building site outside of town. I have food, and there’s a spare sleeping bag – you could crash in the back of the truck. If you want.”

‘Steve’ stumbles to a stop and Derek waits, turning. Wide amber eyes stare into his.

“Wh-” his voice trails away. He swallows, then says warily, “Why would you ...do that?”

Derek has a pretty good idea what the kid is thinking. It makes his guts clench up.

“I don’t want anything from you, kid,” he says, not sure how to sound convincing on that. Either the boy will believe him, or he won’t. Derek’s face doesn’t really remember how to look reassuring, but he gives it a shot anyway.

“Riiight,” Steve says slowly, eyeing him up and down. He actually takes a step _back_. That’s how bad Derek’s reassuring face is.

Derek sighs. He’s no good at this. He’s too grumpy, too taciturn for it. So he shrugs instead.

“Look, it’s up to you. If you’re stuck, you’ll find me six miles west of town, there’s a wine barrel at the turnoff. Come, don’t come, won’t make any difference to me.”

Why, _why_ does Derek talk?

He’s not actually as much of an angry asshole as he always sounds, though some days it’s a close thing. He shrugs at the kid and swings into the cab of the truck, slams it shut and drives away without glancing back. Right now his anger is mostly at himself. Later it’ll swing around to _her_ , and then, inevitably, right back ‘round to Derek, the stupid chump who chose a fucking _psychopath_ as his first serious girlfriend. _Moron_.

His eyes flick to the rear-view mirror right before he turns the corner. The kid is still standing there, staring after him. He looks young, and tired, and very, very alone.

Derek sleeps like shit that night, and the night after. In his dreams, Jacob is calling, beseeching, reaching his hands out to his big brother. Cora and Rachel huddle together under a heavy cloud of smoke, choking too hard to form Derek’s name, though he hears it anyway, even hours after he’s woken up. Kate’s laughter echoes in his ears the whole time, husky and pleased with her work.

On the third day he bites the bullet and drives back into fucking town.

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Beech Moon, Kenny Springs

 

 

He’s not so far gone that he doesn’t at least make an attempt to pretend he has reasons. He hits the PO Box he set up for their redirected mail from New York. Nothing there, again. When he calls Karl – _again_ – the guy curses and swears he’ll bundle up the stack of envelopes and send them on today.

“I won’t forget.”

Derek rolls his eyes. _Sure_ he won’t. He’s forgotten four times in the last three weeks. If they’re not careful, their utilities will end up disconnected, but then, what do they care? Laura’s in Alaska for another two months at least, and Derek is currently stuck in Bumfuck, Arizona.

“Text me when you’ve sent them,” he says to Karl, his tone short. Maybe that’ll help the dude to remember. Jesus. Don’t offer to do a favour if you’re not going to, y’know, _actually do the fucking favour_.

“I will. I’ll- this afternoon.”

Derek hangs up with a shrug and sends Laura a text letting her know their mail is AWOL, again. The university knows where she is, so, really, anything urgent of hers would be sent to the project’s address, and it’s not like Derek has pen-pals scattered around the world wondering why he doesn’t write. He shoves the phone in his pocket and wanders down the main street, breathing in deep and letting his senses take over a little.

Big surprise, his wandering feet take him to the grocery store, to the very aisle where _Steve_ is carefully eyeing the prices of the past-used-by-date snacks.

“Hey,” the kid says, surprised and still wary. It’d been easy to track his scent. Derek hadn’t realized how much attention he’d paid to the kid the other day; warm denim, orange tic-tacs and faint undertones of oncoming rain. _What you’re smelling is ozone_ , Uncle Peter had told a ten-year old Derek as they’d sat in a clearing, waiting for the approaching summer storm. Derek can hear the faint, guilty blip of his own heartbeat at thinking about his uncle’s ruined life – the lifeless husk wasting away in a hospital right now – and drags himself back to the present.

Derek jerks his chin at the kid by way of greeting. Maybe if he talks less this will work. Derek’s holding a plastic basket, after all. How threatening can he possibly look?

“Fancy, uh, seeing you again.”

Derek sighs internally. He eyes the few things the kid has selected. Snack foods - things that don’t require cooking or cooling – and some marked-down fruit. That tells him everything he needs to know. He raises his eyes from the food to the kid’s flushed face.

Derek scratches at his beard. Maybe he should have shaved, because it hits him at that moment that there’s no mirror in the trailer and he probably has a whole mountain-man thing going by now. Ugh. He is so _bad_ at this. Not even the most wide-eyed rube straight off the turnip truck would accept a lift from someone who looks like Derek looks and acts like Derek acts.

Fuck it. Time to admit what everyone else knows.

He’s not helping anyone. These kids are not Jacob, not Cora or Rachel. Not one fucking thing he does now is going to fix the destruction he brought upon his family.

“You, uh. Just shopping for one?” the kid asks, and flails in the general direction of Derek’s basket.

Derek shrugs and stops pretending to be some mild-mannered helpful schmuck. “Well, the kid tied up in my basement doesn’t get to eat this week, so that simplifies things.” He turns away with a swift jerk of one shoulder and eyes the breakfast cereal shelf.

Steve gawps at him for a second, then snorts. “Wow. That is. Just. Wow. That was an attempt at humour, right? I vaguely recognize that from, like, bad TV.”

“Yeah,” Derek shrugs again, “There goes my stand-up career.” He turns takes a few steps and snags some juice, tosses it in his basket. He sends ‘Steve’ a sidelong glance, “Good luck, kid,” he says, and starts walking.

Steve makes an odd, confused sound, and when Derek reaches the end of the aisle he calls, “Hey.”

Derek looks back over his shoulder to find the kid is moving in his direction. “So you’re not- I’m, what, uninvited from using your spare sleeping bag?” he calls, voice getting quieter as he gets closer.

Derek stares back at him for a moment, then takes a step so that they’re close enough for him to keep his voice low, just between the two of them. “You’re a smart kid. And no smart kid is going to get in that truck with me.”

Light brown eyes move over Derek, assessing. Probably seeing a lot more than Derek would like. “Huh. So you figured why bother trying to seem like some harmless dude?”

The corner of Derek’s mouth twitches. He imagines for one second, how that look would go if this kid knew what Derek was _actually_ capable of, physically.

“Why’d you offer anyway?”

Derek loses the grin at that. He steps back, but the kid steps forward at the same time, eyes alight with interest. Derek looks away. He has a pretty impressive poker face generally, but not on this topic.

“I don’t like knowing there are teenagers in trouble,” he finally says, because he can’t think of anything other than the truth. “A lot of bad shit can happen to kids like you.” He cuts his eyes back to Steve, “So, like I said. Be careful.”

And Derek turns on his heel and walks away.

 

 

 

When he gets to the truck five minutes later the kid is leaning against it, his small bag of groceries banging gently against his leg.

“So it turns out your actual personality, while kind of stony-faced and scary, is actually more reassuring than that fake I’m-a-good-guy-no-really thing you were trying for the other day.”

Derek stays where he is, a good five feet back from the truck. “What are you doing.”

Steve squints up at the sky as he says, “Yeah, so, I’m kind of stuck in Kenny Springs for a while. I’m waiting for someone who’s supposed to help me out, but they’re apparently ‘unavoidably delayed’,” he does actual air quotes, “and I don’t have the money to keep hanging around town indefinitely without a job, but there aren’t any jobs. Apparently.”

Derek frowns. “You-”

“Oh my God,” the kid says, “you are the actual _worst_. You’re going to make me flat-out _ask?”_

“What-no,” Derek says, wrongfooted. “I just. Thought I was, y’know.”

“Creepy and socially awkward?”

“What- _no_ ,” Derek snaps, although the answer is clearly _yes_. “Shut up.”

The kid’s mouth twitches into a grin. “See, yeah, genuine rudeness I can cope with. But lately, uh, I’ve kind of had an overdose of creepy let’s-be-friends shit from a very fucked up individual. So.”

“So what you’re telling me is, don’t ever change,” Derek says, deadpan, and walks around the back of the truck so the kid can’t see the wave of relief and hope that’s currently rearranging his face. _Get a fucking grip, Hale_ , he tells himself as he climbs into the truck and leans across to unlock the passenger door.

The kid opens the door but stands there, feet on the pavement, shifting nervously. They’re going to do this in stages, apparently. “Tell me the truth -why would you do this?”

Derek shrugs and meets the kid’s eyes. “I can afford to offer you a hand.”

“And you’re not going to ask _me_ to offer you ‘a hand’?” the kid blurts out, then his eyes go wide like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

Derek’s lips twitch. “No.” There’s silence as he shoves the key into the ignition and starts the truck, and then he sighs. “Look, if I want to get laid, I can get laid. I don’t need to coerce anyone into it-” he says, matter-of-fact.

The kid flushes slightly, and mutters in a way that Derek is not meant to hear, _“Yeah, no shit with those shoulders.”_

“-and I sure as hell don’t need to risk being charged with statutory rape.” Derek goes on. He has long experience ignoring things he wasn’t meant to overhear.

The long pale throat moves in a swallow and Derek forces himself to breathe evenly because while those two things are true, it’s also true that he would dearly love to get his mouth _all over_ every inch of this kid’s smooth, creamy skin. Lucky for Derek he’s had years to cultivate a blank mask, and ‘Steve’ doesn’t ever need to know the scary dude in the truck has the hots for his latest stray.

He just waits. There’s a long beat of waiting, and then the kid takes a sharp breath in and climbs up into the cab. _Please just don’t let Laura visit_ , Derek has time to think, because she is full of all the fucking awkward allusions and teasing. The door closes, bag of snacks lands on the seat between them, and then the kid says. “Uh. Okay. So I should probably say... thanks?”

“Is that a question?” Derek asks, just to be a dick, and puts them in gear.

“No, I mean- thanks,” he says, more firmly. His heart is pounding as hard as it had in the laneway, and his cheeks are flushing an inviting red that meets with the wolf’s approval. Derek stubbornly ignores that. “As in, yes. Yeah. I would- that sounds um, pretty, that works for me, as long as, y’know, um-”

“As long as I keep my hands to myself,” Derek finishes for him, mercifully.

Steve nods jerkily. “Not that you’re not-” He bites down hard on his lip and flushes even redder, eyes closing in mortification.

Derek finds himself fighting back a laugh, of all things. This kid. Apparently he found a talker this time.

He worries at the _very fucked up individual_ remark like a sore tooth the whole way home, while the kid babbles harmlessly about Kenny Springs and its various deficiencies.

 

 

 

The slightly sweaty scent of unease returns when Derek takes the turnoff at the whitewashed wine barrel and they drive another few minutes away from the main road.

Yep. Secluded. That would be the word.

“So, uh,” Steve begins, giving Derek the side-eye. “You do this a lot?”

“Yeah, I’m a frustrated social worker,” he grinds out. “Righting wrongs wherever I find them.”

Just like back in town, the kid relaxes slightly when Derek is sarcastic and or rude. “Uh-huh. So now my life is a _Highway to Heaven_ episode.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Derek lies. His Nanna had loved that show. Maybe ‘Steve’ had a Nanna with uncomfortably strong feelings about Michael Landon, too. They’re not that far apart in age, he thinks, though with the beard Derek’s currently sporting the kid probably thinks he’s older than dirt.

“Before your time, I guess,” Steve says wryly. Derek takes the last gentle loop to the left and they pull into a clearing with an ugly-ass trailer on one side, and a buttload of building supplies on the other. In the middle is a confusing mess of stakes and string and half-dug holes, and he watches the kid blink at it in confusion.

They climb out of the truck, and the doors closing sound like gunshots in this quiet place.

“Wow,” Steve says. “So. Um. Am I here for free labour? Because I’m wiry, but-”

“Help if you want,” Derek says with a shrug. “I don’t care.” He’ll have to be a little more careful about things, though. No more slamming posts into the ground with his bare hands, not with a witness around.

He rounds the truck and retrieves his groceries, and when he straightens the kid is watching him, narrow-eyed.

“Do we... know each other?”

Derek blinks. “What? No.”

“You just. Look kind of familiar, somehow.”

Derek eyes him again, more carefully this time. “I don’t think so,” he says slowly. He’s pretty sure he’d have remembered that mouth, and the attitude. “You ever been to New York?”

The kid snorts. “Uh. No.”

Derek shrugs and there’s a pause. He can tell the kid is working up to something.

“Why did you make that offer, really?” the kid asks, and he’s hiding it well but he’s nervous as hell all over again. “No bullshit. I mean,” he swallows, “it’s not like anyone could hear me scream.”

Derek sighs. “I told you.”

Amber eyes try to bore through his face so he flails mentally, trying to find words that will work without actually saying _I won’t sleep too well tonight wondering if you’re starving to death or getting beaten up in a back alley_.

In the end he says, slow and even, “It costs me nothing to offer you a safe place to sleep, and a little food, kid. You’re no threat to me physically.” The kid raises a brow and then makes a face like, _yeah, okay_. “And I don’t have anything worth stealing,” Derek shrugs, and starts for the trailer.

The kid eyes him doubtfully, but follows. He pauses when he catches sight of the Camaro, parked under a tree, but apart from a lift of his eyebrows, he doesn’t ask questions. Presumably he can figure out for himself that a sports car and building supplies don’t mix.

He lingers in the doorway, still nervous, as Derek unpacks his groceries. “Help yourself to whatever,” he says, and waves his hand over the various cans of soup and packets of mac-n-cheese.

“ _This_ is what you’ve been eating?” Steve says. “Oh my god how do you stay in _that_ kind of shape-” then he stops short, flushes beet red and glances away. “Um. Anyway. I can do better than this, guaranteed.”

Derek doesn’t tease the kid. Besides, he’s been on the receiving end of enough come-ons to know that a _lot_ of people like what they see when they look at Derek, especially if he hasn’t yet opened his mouth to speak. People finding him physically attractive means less than nothing, in the grand scheme of things. No need to be a jerk about it to someone who’s done him no harm.

“Suit yourself,” he says instead. He hesitates, then adds, “Being able to cook actually might come in handy if you’re planning on sticking around for more than a night or two. The volunteers will start showing up in a few days to help put up the walls, and feeding them is part of the bargain. I could talk to the owner, see if she’ll agree. I doubt she’ll feel up to cooking after hauling bales of hay all day.”

The kid’s heartbeat speeds up, then slows down. “Oh. So, uh. It won’t be just us?”

Derek doesn’t react. He’d be skittish, too, if the positions were reversed. Well, and y’know - if Derek was human, and physically vulnerable. He wonders how the kid will react to two wolf packs descending.

“For a few more days it will be,” he says. “The owner and her family were due here last week, had to reschedule.” He measures out a few scoops of coffee and hits the button, hears the tiny whimper of _coffee_ and lets himself smile, since the kid can’t see his face. “Then there’ll be about five newcomers, plus however many volunteers decide to show.”

“And that’s actually going to be a building. That mess out there.”

Derek turns around and leans back against the counter. “It’s going to be a straw bale house.”

“Straw bale.”

Derek nods. “You’ll see.”

“Ah- _huh_ ,” the kid says, snotty and sceptical. It suits him.

 

* * *

 

Derek goes for a walk before dinner, assuming the kid might not work up the nerve to use the shower or whatever with Derek lurking. He’ll go for a run, later, under the moon, when he’s sure the kid’s asleep and not likely to see Derek shifted, or be frightened by sounds of a large animal in the surrounding woods.

He hadn’t expected Steve to venture out of the clearing at all, and so he stops abruptly, alerted by the shaky breathing ahead, and the hammering heartbeat. The kid is under some serious stress. Derek stills, and waits.

“Man up, asshole,” the kid mutters to himself. There are tiny, soft sounds Derek can barely distinguish. He realizes a beat later it’s the boy’s fingertips tapping on a touchscreen. An automated voice asks for a code, which he inputs, and is told he has eleven saved messages, and three new messages. He makes his choice, Derek can’t tell which, and the message begins.

 _“Stiles,”_ the voice says. It’s raw and hoarse, filled with so much pain that Derek winces at hearing it.

“Son. _Please_.” The voice breaks on the last word, and there’s an underlying slur that speaks to a lot of alcohol.

“Come home. Just. Come home. Or if you can’t, then please, at least let me know you’re all right. I love you, son. And I’m _sorry_ -” the voice breaks again and there’s a soft electronic sound as the kid cuts the message off mid-word.

His breathing is harsh and wet and Derek doesn’t have to move any closer to know that he’s crying.

It fits. Short and sharp and unique.

Derek breathes in and out, slow, trying to get a hold of his own emotions before he stumbles into the clearing and does or says something stupid. Stiles still has a father out there, somewhere – a father who loves him and will forgive whatever stupid fucking mistake he made. Why wouldn’t he go home to that?

What Derek wouldn’t give to be able to go home again. Apologize. What Derek wouldn’t give to die in their place.

Whatever Stiles has done, he surely didn’t cause the death of almost his entire family.

In the Biggest Mistake Ever category - Derek wins. Every. Fucking. Time.

 

* * *

 

“So. _Steve_ ,” Derek says, and he emphasises the name just enough to show he knows it’s fake. “What are you running from exactly?”

Stiles manages not to spit or choke on his dinner, but it’s a near thing.

“Wh- what are you-” The denial dies the second his eyes meet Derek’s. He recalculates and tries silence. He’s been trying silence a lot, lately. Apparently all it took for Stiles to learn to be quiet was to be stalked, threatened and framed by a supernatural creature of the night. His old therapist would be super-proud.

Derek, of course, isn’t the type to be bothered by an awkward silence. It wouldn’t surprise Stiles at all to discover Derek was the rightful heir of the delightful Kingdom of Uncomfortable Pauselandia, difficult conversations as much of a birthright as that insane freaking jawline of his.

“What would you do if I told you I’d bashed my stepfather’s head in with a baseball bat?” Stiles asks finally, watching.

“I’d say bullshit,” Derek returns without haste or hesitation.

Stiles grimaces. “Ugh. What are you, a human lie detector?”

Unexpectedly, Derek actually half-grins at that, and Stiles’s heart damn near stops at the flash of white teeth amongst the beard.

What is his life, that he is rescued from a life on the streets - well, not really. Stiles still had nearly two hundred bucks on him, plus the emergency card, though he knows damn well how quickly that could run out in his situation.

 _An_ -y-way, he’s been kind-of-rescued by a guy who looks like he’s one manscaping session away from being plastered all over billboards for Calvin Klein, right when Stiles is already in the middle of a fucking disaster? He _cannot_ spare the time for a gay crisis right now. Ugh.

“Something like that,” Derek returns, his voice low and lazy. “You haven’t beaten anyone with a baseball bat, kid, I’m pretty sure of that.”

 _I would though_ , Stiles thinks suddenly. If he had a chance in hell of surviving it, he’d turn that fucking blue-eyed beast back home into a blue eyed _paste._

“Yeah, I’m a lover not a fighter,” he manages to say, unclenching his jaw.

But Derek is watching him closely, as if something has given away the surge of rage that had accompanied Stiles’s thoughts, even though the past few weeks have been a swift and brutal lesson in keeping a blank face no matter what he’s feeling.

“Not saying you’re not capable of it,” Derek clarifies. “Just don’t think you’ve been pushed that far yet.”

Stiles swallows and his eyes drop to the fire for a long moment.

“Maybe you got away before that last push, huh?” Derek murmurs, and he leans forward to jab carefully at the campfire logs, the light from the flames making his eyes glint an oddly familiar blue for a half-second.

Right. Because that’s all Stiles’s life needed. Fucking flashbacks.

“Is this, like, part of the favour?” Stiles asks rudely. “You think you have the right to know my story?”

Derek shakes his head and doesn’t look at Stiles. “Nope. Just wanted to know if anyone’s going to be coming after you. I don’t object to trouble,” he shrugs lazily, and wow, those shoulders derail Stiles’s thoughts as Derek finishes, “I just prefer to know if it’s coming my way.”

Stiles stares at him, mouth open. Who _says_ things like that? Honestly, _who?_ What kind of idiot breaks up fights and offers a teenage runaway shelter and is apparently also prepared for _more_ trouble, with no payback? “Seriously,” he croaks out, “Dude. What do you _want_.” Because it’s dark and isolated here, and if this guy wants to hold Stiles down and do whatever-

Well. It’s not like Stiles would be able to fight him off for long. And there’s a sick, roiling feeling in his stomach like obligation, like maybe he’s so alone and so scared and so fucking lost that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad... if- if Stiles didn’t fight him, if Derek wasn’t rough, it wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen, right? The guy doesn’t seem cruel, just quiet and antisocial, and that special kind of messed-up that leads to self-loathing.

He’s done Stiles a pretty big favour. So maybe it would be worth that price, to be warm and well-fed and somewhat secure? And if Stiles makes his mind up to it now, tells himself it’s a yes, then- then he’s not a victim-

Derek leans back and Stiles is struck, once again, with that strange feeling of recognition. Maybe it’s just the gorgeousness factor, that male-model type. Flick open any magazine and there’s a guy like that staring back at you.

“You’re not going to believe me no matter how many times I reassure you,” the older man says calmly, and shrugs one shoulder. He turns his head then, in perfect synch as the clouds slip away to reveal the full moon near the horizon, and he stares at it without blinking.

The silence stretches on and on.

Conversation over, apparently.

Stiles swallows and shoves to his feet. “Okay,” he says, shoulders tight. “I’m uh. Gonna-” and he jerks his head toward the truck Derek had driven that morning. There’s an old, soft sleeping bag in the back of it, and Derek’s shown him how to secure the doors slightly ajar so that Stiles won’t be locked in or – _heh, heh_ – suffocate. He can’t lock it from the inside, but then, logic told him no truck would come with that kind of capability, so Stiles firmly telling himself there’s nothing sinister about that. Besides. He’s kind of made his peace with Derek maybe wanting something. The guy could throw him down in the dirt right now, if he wanted, he wouldn’t have to wait for Stiles to be in the truck.

“Good night, _Steve,”_ Derek says, still staring at the moon.

Stiles nods, jerky, and makes his way stiffly toward the truck. He spends a long time waiting in a weird state of nerves, but all that happens is that he hears Derek put out the fire – the guy’s careful about it, _super_ careful judging by how long he spends at it – and climb the three small steps to the trailer. Stiles leans close to the small slice of light coming in through the truck’s doors.

The door closes behind Derek, there’s a few small noises like cupboard doors closing, and then the final soft glow of artificial light Stiles can see through the gap in the doors is extinguished, and everything is dark and silent.

He falls asleep sitting up with the sleeping bag clutched around his shoulders, and he’s cursing his own paranoia next morning when he wakes with a crick in his neck and an ass gone waaay past numb.

Not to worry. He distracts himself by logging in to his old voicemail account and listening to his messages again. He starts with Scott this time, then Deaton’s message about his friend being delayed, and finishes with his Dad’s last message. The guilt and rage that works up by the end of that are more than enough to swamp any physical pain. He manages not to throw up this time, so that’s... progress, he guesses.

Stiles closes his eyes and thumbs up the volume on the phone, lets the lone voice and the drums drown out everything in his head, not that its helping, not at all, the lyrics just salt in the wounds...

_Calling out father, oh..._

A tear slides down his face as he listens.

_For if the dark returns_

_then my brothers will die_

_And as the sky is falling down_

_it crashed into this lonely town_

_And with that shadow upon the ground_

_I hear my people screaming out_

Stiles gulps in a breath, thinking of Scott, of Lydia, even the freaking guys on the lacrosse team, the deputies at the station, all of them so vulnerable to the monster stalking Beacon Hills.

_And I hope that you remember me..._

He lets his head lower slowly to his knees, because it’s the hopelessness more than anything else that strikes deep with Stiles. He hits repeat, closes his eyes and lets the sorrow wash everything else away.

 

 

 

Derek is not a morning person. It takes Stiles about three seconds to figure that out. He likes coffee, though, and he likes having food put in front of him when his eyes are barely open – well, who _doesn’t?_

Derek scrubs a hand over his face when he’s done eating and leans back from the camp table. He looks like he’s weighing something up, then he says, eyes on the table, “You talk in your sleep.”

Stiles blinks at him and freezes halfway through reaching for the empty plate. “Whuh?”

“Stiles,” Derek says, and slants a glance up.

Stiles backs away. “What?” His heart is starting that rapid, drum-like beat; it reminds him so much of blue lights gleaming in the darkness. “What did you-”

“Just figured I might as well use your real name,” Derek says, and shrugs. He gives Stiles a level look. “I’m not trying to trick you, kid. Just telling you what I heard, so you don’t freak out.”

Stiles edges away as Derek rises to his feet, but the older man just collects his plate and takes it inside the trailer.

There’s the sound of running water, and Stiles walks warily to the doorway. It shouldn’t make any difference, it’s not like his name really changes anything, but God, Derek must have heard a whole lot more than just Stiles’s name last night. Was he crying, he wonders? Apologising, maybe? After Dad’s phone message...

He sighs. “Leave the dishes, man,” he says, and Derek turns his head from where he’s filling the tiny sink. “Least I can do.”

Their eyes meet. Derek nods once, then shuts off the water and says, “Okay.” Then the older man strides off to the other end of the trailer, hopefully to find a goddam shirt, because Stiles’s stupid dick keeps trying to rear its stupid head, and he does _not_ need any further complications in his life right now.

 

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	7. Beech Moon, waning, Kenny Springs

 

Stiles isn’t particularly enamoured of the new arrivals. The past few days he’s gotten used to Derek’s surly nature, but _these_ guys?

For a start they’re kind of... aggressive. It’s low-level shit, they’re constantly all up in each other’s spaces – though not Stiles’s space, he notes with relief – but there’s an odd undercurrent of power play he’s not liking at all.

And in the second place? The first thing out of anyone’s mouth is, “ _Seriously,_ Derek? _Another_ one?”

Derek’s shoulders tighten – always impressive, Stiles takes a moment to appreciate the subtle transformation from seriously firm to sculpted marble – and then Derek bares his teeth in an odd sneer for a half-second before he says, ignoring the blonde who’d spoken and instead looking straight at the woman in the centre of the group, as he gestures, “This is Stiles.”

“Stiles,” she says politely, and nods to him. “I’m Fiona.”

Stiles nods back, cursing the flush he can feel rise in his cheeks when one of the bunch, a brunette mutters, “Talk about jailbait, _Jesus_.”

Derek shifts slightly at his side, fists clenching, and Fiona flicks an irritated glance at the asshole that just spoke. He makes a face but goes silent.

Derek ignores the guy like he doesn’t exist. “The foundations are ready,” he says, and gestures. Everyone turns to look at the carefully prepared area. “Terry’s p... group should be here by tonight, and if the weather stays fine, we should have walls up within two or three days. Stiles has volunteered to take care of meals for the entire group, so with all hands on deck this should go pretty quickly.”

“That’s a great idea,” Fiona says, and smiles at Stiles, though he can tell she’s still low-level pissed at the guy standing at her left shoulder. Then, weirdly, her head lifts, and a second later, every other person in the clearing shifts slightly, heads tilting or turning, except Derek, who shakes his head and mutters something low under his breath. Whatever it is, it breaks the moment and everyone turns their attention back to Stiles and Derek, some of them looking sheepish, others annoyed.

Derek strides forward and starts pointing at different parts of the site, explaining the layout, and Stiles makes sure to meet the long glance the brunette sends his way, all smirk and arrogance. _Ugh._ Then he turns his eyes to follow where the youngest newcomers had looked, toward the dirt track that leads to the highway, and sure enough, a few seconds later, a huge pickup comes into view. Stiles blinks. Huh.

The rest of the newcomers glance over, raising hands in a wave or a nod, and everyone waits while the truck finds a place to park and five even newer arrivals spill out. Derek strides out and meets them ahead of everyone else, shaking hands and speaking in a low voice. The grey-haired man nods once, glances over at Stiles and then the two groups merge. Fiona greets the new arrivals, there’s a general mishmash of handshakes and backslaps and a couple of hugs.

No-one hugs the asshole brunette who, he notes, is still smirking at Stiles from the back of the group. These arrivals are all that little bit older than the first lot, mid to late twenties or early thirties, and either maturity really is as good as everyone always wants you to believe, or they’re just nicer people in general, because not one of them seems to assume Stiles is here solely for the purpose of having his ass tapped by Derek.

“And this is Stiles,” Derek says, awkward as ever but clearly trying as he leads the grey-haired man and a greying redhead who is clearly his wife over to where Stiles is practicing his wow I’m such an outsider-type lurking.

There’s a beat of silence, then the older couple step forward, all calm welcome and utterly ignoring the way their companions are openly sizing up Stiles and eye-fucking Derek.

“Stiles,” the man says, and nods. “Good to meet you, I’m Terry, and this is my wife, Marisol.”

“Hi, uh. Nice to meet you,” he begins, then freezes. _“Marisol?”_

Everyone stills, suddenly far too watchful, but Stiles has no time for noticing that, because that is not a common name. “ _Deaton’s_ friend Marisol?”

She blinks at him. “You know Alan?”

“He sent me here,” Stiles blurts out, and takes a step forward. He gestures wildly, “Oh my God, this is- _shit_ , you have _no idea_ , I’ve been waiting-”

Marisol is smiling, _“Ah,”_ she says. “Yes, I’m sorry we’ve been delayed, Alan was concerned about you.”

Stiles shoots a glance at Derek, who is suddenly tense and watchful. “Uh,” he says.

“Alan Deaton,” Derek says. It’s a question, Stiles thinks, but the guy is just really bad at inflection. Then he says, “The vet.”

Stiles freezes. _“What?”_

Their eyes meet. Derek says, “You’re from... Beacon Hills.”

“Derek,” Stiles says slowly, and feels a stone sink into his gut because of course the guy was fucking familiar, underneath the mountain man beard he’s... “Derek _Hale_.”

Derek nods once, stiff.

Stiles just stands there, for once really focusing on not letting his thoughts spill straight out of his mouth because that would go something like, _oh my God your whole family is dead, dude, like, in a fire, and shit, I shouldn’t have said that, Jesus, I’m so sorry-_

“Right,” he ends up saying instead. “Huh.” It’s a weird co-incidence. _Really_ fucking weird, actually. Although. If Deaton knows Marisol, and he _also_ knows Derek, well... yeah, six degrees of separation and all that. Probably not that unlikely, then, since Deaton sent Stiles to Arizona in the first place.

Derek is still staring at him, and then the asshole brunette drawls, “Well, as _fascinating_ as this is-” and Fiona lets out a short, sharp breath as she glares at him and says, “Lyle, why don’t you _go and unpack the car.”_ She makes it sound pretty hardcore, like _unpack the fucking car or I will break your fucking nose, you asshat_.

The brunette shrugs, insolent, and slouches off.

 

 

It’s hot today, and too bright, and he didn’t sleep last night, because every time he closed his eyes he saw ice-blue eyes gleaming at him from the treeline, and if it wasn’t the freaky glowing eyes it was his Dad, drunk, lonely, and grieving.

Stiles knows his Dad, knows that right now in his office, or maybe at home, the Sheriff is slumped over a stack of papers, of photographs, of handwritten notes taken during phone calls, witness statements – handwritten and transcribed – and the few forensic reports this case would have garnered. The dead deer. Scott’s injuries. The entrails. The bite marks. Probably, by now, Stiles’s Jeep.

He bites his lip and tries not to think too hard about Dad’s heart, his blood pressure, his hair turning grey because his troublemaking son has finally stumbled into something so big that he couldn’t get out of it, not this time. He’s learning from Marisol, he is, but it’s slow, so fucking _slow_ , he still can’t see how this gives him a real weapon to beat this asshole and Beacon Hills isn’t exactly going to be featured in the news, so it’s really hard to get an idea of what’s happening back at home-

He gives his head a hard shake and scrolls through the list on his phone, pushes the earbuds in and starts that same song again. It’s not healthy, probably, listening so often to something that rips him up on the inside, but he can lose himself in it-

 _“Stiles,”_ the voice is urgent, a shout audible even over the music filling his head, and his eyes snap open, heart thudding already. His adrenaline response has really had time to refine itself over the past few weeks.

“What,” he begins, yanks the earbuds out, “Jesus, _what-_ ”

“ _Turn it off_ ,” Marisol calls, still running straight for him. “The song, _please,_ just- Stiles, turn it-”

He’s blinking dumbly at her, but the horror on her face is more than enough to have his fingers fumbling for the screen and he hits the pause button just as she reaches him, gulping in air, face smoothing out in relief.

“ _Thank_ you,” she says, and then just- stops. He can actually watch the realization dawn on her face that she needs to give him an explanation.

He stares at her. Waits for a moment and then when she hesitates and glances over a shoulder, raises his eyebrows.

“No problem,” he says slowly, utterly, utterly confused. “Uh. Any particular reason...” and then he gestures, assuming the _why the music playing in my headphones hundred yards away from you was a problem?_ is pretty well implied.

Marisol bites her lip. “Um.” She shifts from foot to foot. “It. Uh.”

Stiles glances past her, because she really does look like she can’t find a way to explain this. A bunch of the newcomers are gathered at one of the half-built corners, staring Stiles’s way, faces in various stages of worried, pissed, and sorry.

 _What the_ hell _is going on?_

And then he sees, way at the back of the site, Derek, bad-temperedly jerking his shoulder out of Ray’s grip, face blank rather than angry, and Stiles feels the bottom drop out of his stomach because it suddenly all glues together. For no particular reason in that moment he thinks-

_Derek – and fire –They heard the pickup coming before I could –watch the flames burn on and on – the Hale fire –_

And then, all of a sudden, he knows just how someone heard music playing through his earbuds from across the other side of a building site. He knows _exactly_ fucking how.

 

 

 

He’s not exactly calm about it, he babbles and shouts a little, but Derek and Marisol sit with him while he vents, and after a while he’s a little calmer, a little more able to think.

Derek surveys him carefully, then catches sight of something over Stiles shoulder and mutters a curse. He’s off and running a few seconds later, ripping shreds off two of Fiona’s pack about their cavalier handling of the straw bales.

“...can’t be trusted to goddam shape the bales then I’ll do every one of them myself-”

“God’s sake, Derek,” and there’s a smirk in Lyle’s voice now. “We’re all aware you’ve been _burned_ before, but-”

There’s a few shocked intakes of breath around the clearing, and one of the older guys drops the sledgehammer right on his own foot and doesn’t even flinch.

Derek’s face is stony. He raises his head slowly, his eyes burning into Lyle’s face, and Stiles can’t hear anything over the blood roaring in his ears.

Oh no he _didn’t_. Oh no, he very fucking did _not_.

 _“Lyle-”_ Fiona snaps, starting forward.

 _“No,”_ Stiles says, and he barely recognizes the sound of his own voice, it’s so hard and angry. He’s closing the distance between them before he realizes he’s even moved. “You fucking asshole, you are _not_ doing that.” He plants his hands on Lyle’s chest and shoves the guy, hard enough to move him, once, twice, and everyone else seems too shocked to intervene. “You don’t take someone’s fucking _family dying_ and make a _joke_ out of it.”

Lyle straightens and his features are trying for a bored sneer, like he’s going to try to shrug this off rather than man up and offer a goddam apology, and that is just- that is _IT_.

“Do you have any feelings at all? There were _kids_ in that house. Little k-kids, did you know that?” Stiles’s voice breaks, which makes no fucking sense whatsoever except for the part where the Hale fire and his Mom getting sick are kind of all jumbled up in his childhood memories, and you just don’t do that. You just _don’t_.

“You should be fucking _ashamed_ of yourself.” His eyes cut to Fiona, “And _this_ is who you have in your pack? What the fuck kind of people are you?” he spits, and stalks off. Right now he could set the whole goddam bunch of them on fire and not feel too bad about it.

He maybe has some rage issues. He’s maybe practising a little transference here. What the fuck ever. He’s not sorry.

 

 

 

Derek finds him a long time later, and Stiles realizes after a beat he must have let Stiles have some time to cool down, because there is no way the ‘wolves back in the clearing didn’t hear and smell everything about where Stiles went, considering he was kind of _Hulk-smash_ about the whole thing.

Stiles is staring out across the fast-running creek.

“I’ve been listening to that song non-stop, for days,” he says when Derek is standing at his left shoulder.

“I know.”

Stiles shakes his head. _He knows_. Derek fucking _knows._

“And you just... didn’t say anything because- what? Because you enjoy torturing yourself?” He thinks about all the nights he sat up listening to those goddam words and crying, and Derek’s incredible hearing which means he was not only listening to a sad song about people dying in a fire but he was also listening to Stiles’s fucking pity party about the nothing at all that bad, by comparison, that has happened to him.

No-one has died. Puts his little _I wanna go home_ problem into sweet perspective, doesn’t it?

“Do you have any idea how much of an asshole I feel right now?” he asks, tired.

“ _Lyle_ levels of asshole?” Derek asks, and Stiles snorts.

“Geez, kick me while I’m down why don’t ya,” Stiles says, but he’s smiling.

“You couldn’t have known,” Derek says. “So just... forget it. Okay?”

“Forget it?” Stiles repeats, incredulous. He turns his head to stare at Derek.

“You wouldn’t hurt anyone on purpose,” Derek says.

Stiles blinks at him.

“This was just bad luck. So forget it.”

He’s staring at Stiles, like Derek’s willing him to understand. And since even Vladimir Putin could probably intuit that maybe Derek has some issues there, buried deep; that maybe he doesn’t want anyone poking around, Stiles kind of can’t argue. What he can do is sympathise. Boy, can he.

“If that’s what you want,” he says slowly.

“I do,” Derek says, and nods once, definite.

When they get back to the clearing, Ray is back from his run into town and Fiona’s pack – including Lyle - are nowhere to be seen. Stiles starts making coffee and Ray hands a stack of mail to Derek, who glances through what is almost certainly a stack of utility bills without interest until he gets to one large buff envelope. He frowns, rips the end open and slides out a handful of photographs.

The small stack of envelopes in Derek’s other hand spills to the ground in a long, graceful wave. Stiles blinks at the older man, the white face beneath the beard, the way he staggers and sinks down onto a picnic table. He stares into space for a long time, swallows once, twice, then blinks and lifts his head.

“Stiles,” he says, voice urgent. “This... _trouble_ you ran from. In Beacon Hills. What was it?”

Stiles gapes at him. Derek’s never asked anything about his conversations with Marisol, what they do when they head deep into the woods. Of all the things he’d-

“What _was_ it,” Derek says again, almost shouting, he’s on his feet and headed straight at Stiles-

“My friend was mauled,” he blurts. “By someth-” and then he comes to a screeching halt because, _fuck_. How could he not have put that together?

Deaton sent him to _someone who can help_ , though he neglected to mention Stiles would end up surrounded by the same type of fucking creatures as the one that started this nightmare in the first place.

“By a _werewolf,”_ he says slowly. Today’s revelations have really messed with his thought processes because, _duh_. How could he not have guessed that his wolfy trouble at home would be connected to the wolfy dude he met in Arizona, who hails from _Beacon Hills?_ Ugh. _Dumb_ Stiles, just- _dumb_.

Derek is breathing hard, and he staggers at that piece of news, even as he nods just a little. He looks up, meets Ray’s eyes and shoves the photographs toward the alpha. Stiles pushes forward, sees the animal, the markings he’d never gotten a clear look at before, since the display on his Jeep hadn’t exactly been precision work-

“That’s your tattoo,” he blurts out. He has technicolour memories of what Derek looks like with his shirt off, okay.

“It’s the Hale family symbol,” Derek gets out. His voice is unsteady. “This is- a challenge. Or a warning. They’re attacking animals – attacking _people_ – on our land.” His voice is shaking when he adds, “Hunters will come.”

Derek and Stiles stare at each other. “He said he wanted attention,” Stiles mumbles, lips numb.

Derek blanches. “He wants the attention of _hunters?”_

“He didn’t sound super stable to me, dude,” Stiles says. “He said he’d expected visitors by now, but if they weren’t paying attention, he’d _make_ them.”

 _“Fuck,”_ Derek mutters. He swipes a hand across his mouth. “I have to-I have to go.”

“Derek, just hold on a moment,” Ray says. He’s frowning down at the deer in the photographs, worried. “You have no idea what you’re getting into-”

“Someone is desecrating my pack’s territory, Ray,” Derek snarls. “I’m not going to fucking wait to discuss this in a committee.”

“Just-”

“I’m going,” Derek is already halfway to the trailer. “Don’t worry, this isn’t your fight.”

Stiles exchanges a wide-eyed glance with Ray, who shakes his head slowly as he sighs. “Hales,” he mutters to himself. “Permanently hot-headed.”

For a long moment Stiles just stands there, torn. Then he takes a deep breath. “I’m going with him,” he says.

Ray’s brow wrinkles. He turns his head, meets Marisol’s gaze. She looks troubled, stares back at her husband, both of them communicating soundlessly, and for some reason, that makes Stiles’s decision. He’s not letting Derek go back to face that – _thing_ – with no-one to watch his back. “I’m going,” he repeats, and starts for the truck at a jog.

Derek bursts out of the trailer just as Stiles reaches the back of the truck. “Don’t you _dare_ leave without me,” he warns, and the wolf glances up, startled. The sunlight hits his eyes and lights up the weird multicolour of them. For a moment he says nothing, then he gives one sharp nod.

Stiles scrambles through the truck, gathering his few belongings back into the backpack he’s toted all the way from California. He’s outside again in less than two minutes, and slings his bag onto the backseat of the Camaro next to the small duffel Derek has shoved in there.

Ray is talking quietly with Derek, clearly trying to slow things down. Derek shakes his head, mouth grim, and Stiles walks up just in time to hear him say, “...call her from the road.”

 _“Derek,”_ Ray says, with a touch of exasperation this time. “You have no idea what-”

“And we’re not going to find out from here, Ray,” Derek half-shouts. “You can reach out to Deaton all you like but you can’t tell me he couldn’t have found a way to track down Laura, or me, long before this. Jesus, he’s had how many conversations with Marisol since all of this started – _he sent fucking Stiles to you_ \- and he never once said, by the way, any idea where those Hale kids got to? Just, fucking, no. You put your faith in him if you want, but he could have ended this _weeks_ ago if he’d just gotten off his fucking neutral high horse.”

He storms off to the car and, well. That sounded pretty final. Stiles flings his arms around Marisol quickly and says, “Thanks. For everything. I’ll be careful, I promise.”

She’s frowning in real worry now. “We’ll find out what we can, and talk things through with Fiona when she gets back. Whatever she decides, we won’t be far behind you.”

He swallows. That’s – that’s pretty fucking reassuring, actually. Marisol knows a lot more than she says, and Ray has a steady authority that reminds Stiles a lot of his Dad.

“Sounds great,” he says, and then Derek guns the engine of the Camaro behind him and he takes off at a run. They peel out of the clearing with excessive speed, and Stiles feels like his head is still spinning even when they’re a hundred miles down the road.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They’re well into California by the time Stiles screws it all up. The road is empty, they haven’t passed another car for over half an hour. Marisol, Ray and two of their betas are about three hours behind them, according to the last text.

Stiles stares down at the screen of his phone and feels his heart fucking _stop_.

 **Murder victim... Beacon Hills, CA**.

For a moment he can’t move, and then his brain clears. If it was Dad, the headline would have screamed _Sheriff_. If it was Scott, _Teen_ would have featured somewhere. If there’s one certainty in the 21 st century, it’s that the internet news sites will go for the biggest clickbait _every fucking time._ There’s no way they would have missed either of those leads.

Stiles takes a shaky breath, and he is a _shitty person_ because he’s _grateful_ right now that some anonymous dude was murdered. “There’s been a murder,” he says, and swallows.

 _“Fuck,”_ Derek breathes. For a moment he looks young and scared. His hands flex on the steering wheel. “We’re too late, then. There will be hunters in town by now, for sure.”

“That’s... bad, right?” Stiles asks.

Derek’s mouth flattens. “They’re supposed to stick to a code,” he says, and his tone implies the rest. That’s all he says for a long time. Stiles doesn’t push it. He stares out the window and tries to think about what he knows, about what is happening. It’s all rushing together so _fast_ , suddenly.

There’s been no word from Deaton yet, and Derek left the world’s bleakest voicemail for his sister – his _alpha_ – Laura about an hour ago.

She’s in Alaska. A _werewolf_ in _Alaska_. Well, more likely than London, Stiles supposes. And, shit, he’s going to have that song stuck in his head, now. Talk about inappropriate.

He tries to get his head back on track while the story loads on his phone. Some middle-aged dude Stiles doesn’t recognize and can’t link to either himself, or the Hales, from the small details they give in the story.

“Why did- was the fire an accident?” Stiles asks without thinking. A second too late it occurs to him that that was a pretty fucking tactless way to bring up the death of someone’s entire family.

He shoots a glance at Derek and sees his hands tighten on the wheel. But the beta says calmly enough, “No.”

“Oh fuck,” Stiles says, fucking _fuck_ , he is the worst kind of- he’s as bad as that asshole _Lyle_. “Shit, I’m- that was-”

“Forget it,” Derek says, and turns to glance out the window, giving Stiles a view of strong shoulder, his neck, only the barest curve of his jaw visible, and one surprisingly prominent ear. Then he swings back, eyes fixed on the road, the perfect imitation of an automaton.

But Stiles can’t _forget_ it, Jesus, and words just start spilling out of him. “I- God, that’s. How could- I mean, _why?_ Why would anyone- did your family _do_ something?”

The Camaro brakes so hard and so suddenly that Stiles is slammed against the seatbelt and his feet fly up off the floor for a second. The car fishtails and they end up half-turned on the diagonal, straddling the white line. There’s probably tire marks on the asphalt behind them for fifty feet or more.

Stiles is clutching at the belt with one hand, thrown slightly sideways when he manages to fix his gaze on Derek. And this time there’s no automaton. This time all the emotion Stiles knew Derek must be feeling is right. _There_. Blazing, in arctic blue eyes.

Stiles sucks in a rapid, shocky breath and recoils as he recognizes the colour. The belt digs into the side of his neck and his fingers tighten in terrified reflex.

“Did they _do_ something?” Derek asks, perfectly articulated despite the fangs, though he’s visibly shaking with rage. “Did they... _do_ something. Something like _what_ , Stiles?”

Stiles tries to swallow, hears his own shaky breaths in the utter silence as Derek waits. The car idles beneath them, like a slumbering animal.

The wolf tilts his head slowly to one side, like he’s examining an alien specimen, and murmurs slowly, “What exactly do you think the people in that house could have done to deserve being _burned alive?”_

“I didn’t-” Stiles manages, but he’s truly so choked by panic that he can’t get anything else out of his throat. Those eyes. That glowing blue. The parking lot, and Scott, and Lydia-

“My ten year old sisters.”

 _“Nnn-”_ Stiles shakes his head. The twins. They’d been in Stiles’s class at school.

“My thirteen year old brother.”

He raises a shaking hand to his mouth.

“My _cousin_ was only three.”

“I didn’t-” Stiles says, takes a gasping, sobbing breath.

“Get out,” Derek says, flat.

Stiles stares at him.

“Get. The. Fuck. _Out._ Of my _car_.”

“Derek.”

The werewolf’s lips draw back from this teeth in a silent snarl, wickedly curved fangs on full display and Stiles lets out another sobbing breath and scrabbles for the handle. It opens, and the seat-belt checks him, sets off a flare of pain on the side of his neck before he hits the clasp and it retracts, freeing him.

He half-falls out of the car, on his hands and knees on the asphalt, and there’s a soft thump as something – his backpack – lands beside him. He rolls to one side, away from the door and glances up in time to see Derek lean across the console and slam the door shut, his eyes hooded and still glowing in fury.

The Camaro takes off in a screech of tyres, and Stiles is left huddled on the white line, clutching at his backpack and fighting for every breath.

 

 

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	8. Beech Moon, waning, Beacon Hills

 

Derek is fighting for every breath and every thought, not that he can manage many of either. The electrical current under his skin is painful, of course, but he’s never really cared about pain. For a werewolf, pain is always fleeting. There’s always – _always_ – the knowledge that his natural advantage will assert itself, sooner or later, a certainty as inevitable and abiding as gravity.

But the buzz and the burn under his skin won’t let him rest, not even for one second, and he glares out at Kate and just lets one idea take him over, prays to the moon, begs Mother Wolf that he will get the chance to kill her.

She gives the voltage a break, then, because the shitty generator can’t keep going forever, there’s a danger it will overheat. She has a good laugh about that, _wouldn’t want to risk starting a fire, would we, Der?_

Derek pants out hot, sharp breaths and tries to get control over the continuous urge to shift. It’s instinctive, continual, and it’s screwing up his body as much as the voltage, but stopping it is about as difficult as convincing your lungs to take a nice, long break.

She’s talking to her brother, strutting and preening like she always did, and they’re arguing now like they were arguing earlier, about Allison, whoever the fuck that is, and whether she’s too young to see this stuff. Chris looks grim, and focused, he’s not enjoying this the way Kate is. Derek can smell her arousal and it churns his fucking stomach, that familiar scent invading his life again, knowing that it’s his pain and her triumph fuelling it – _again_.

And then there’s another scent, familiar but infinitely more pleasant except not here – _no_ , Derek almost chokes the word out, almost fucking says the kid’s name except that’s when Kate kicks the generator back on again and he chokes out a bubbling moan instead.

One of Kate’s crew shoves the teen forward and Stiles stumbles into the darkened room. Chris frowns, straightening, but Kate’s eyes narrow and she smiles, more predatory than any werewolf ever born. She waits, though, ‘til her hunter buddy goes back outside and closes the door, before she starts.

He’d been grateful, in the back of his mind, that he’d at least cut Stiles loose before Derek had walked into Kate’s trap like a big dumb dog. _At least Stiles hadn’t been scooped up, too,_ he’d thought. But now-

“Well now,” she drawls, and that husky voice is all for the teenager in front of her. Derek closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to see this, doesn’t want to see Stiles fall for her charm just like Derek did all those years ago.

The kid must _hate_ him – has every right to fear him – and if Derek has done this, too, has primed him to fall for Kate’s poison? He just... he just fucking _can’t_. There are limits, and this, apparently, is his. His body goes on lockdown and he sags in the chains, helpless with guilt and rage.

“What have we here?” Kate smiles at Stiles, but either she’s not trying to hide her edges, or else once you’ve committed that much evil it starts to show, Derek doesn’t know.

 _“Who_ have we here,” Chris says flatly. “Is the Sheriff’s kid. The one that’s been missing for weeks.”

Kate’s brows go up. “I thought he was dead.”

“Greatly exaggerated,” Stiles says coolly. He hasn’t glanced in Derek’s direction once. Either he’s massively pissed, which is pretty goddam likely, or he’s smart enough to keep his cards close to his chest.

It’s probably both. Derek knew before he was a mile down the road that he’d been an over-reactive dick, but he’d also known Stiles would get back in the car with him around the same time the core of the planet reached room temperature.

The terse text message he’d received from Marisol had been confirmation enough that he should keep on going and forget about Stiles. At least it meant he hadn’t led the kid straight into a trap the way Ray had predicted he would. Not that it matters. Stiles is caught now, sure enough.

“But then, you were the start of it all, sweetheart,” Kate coos, circling around to Stiles. He keeps his eyes on her. Smart kid. “You’re what the beast was focused on, so how exactly did you come to-”

“I haven’t been bitten, if that’s what you’re asking,” Stiles says flatly. “And I wasn’t the focus. More like collateral damage. Ask the former school bus driver if you don’t believe me. Oh _wait_ \- you can’t. He’s dead.”

Kate pauses, watching him. She glances up at Chris, thoughtful. They knew Stiles was human, of course. They threw up a mountain ash barrier around the whole basement as soon as they got Derek inside. But Stiles is giving them glimpses of what he knows. He’s _playing_ them, and he’s a really fucking smart kid, but Derek is the only one in this room who truly knows what Kate is capable of. And Stiles’s cleverness doesn’t feel like much of a shield against ruthlessness and pure, murderous malice. Derek can’t control his panting breaths, his panic at what is about to happen to Stiles.

Stiles finally takes his eyes off Kate and turns to look at Derek. The teenager gazes at him like he’s a specimen in a museum, already dried out and hung out on display. “This is what they look like, huh?” he says, conversational. “Kinda human looking, actually.”

“Don’t be fooled, kid,” Kate drawls. “There’s plenty of beast in there.” She gives Derek a quick spike of extra volts with the cattle prod and he howls, involuntary, face spasming into his beta shift.

“Do they all have blue eyes?” Stiles asks, ignoring the torture and the screaming. Kate is _fascinated_ by that, Chris is clearly disturbed.

“No,” Chris says, watching Stiles like he’s a snake. “Actually the blue is rare. Where have you been, all these weeks, Stiles?”

“Out of state,” Stiles replies, still watching Derek. “Seemed like the smart thing to do. So there’s two with blue eyes in Beacon Hills. That’s weird.”

 _“Two?”_ Kate says, dagger-sharp.

“Yep,” Stiles says, then side-eyes her. “You didn’t know that? I thought you guys were _professionals_.”

Little shit. Derek could almost smile, if he weren’t half-mad with panic. He already knows he’s going to die, but _please,_ not Stiles too. The boy has suffered enough damage at the hands of the Hales.

“No-” he tries. _Stiles, don’t tell them_ , he wants to say, _don’t trust them. They’re human but they’re monsters._ But the boy won’t listen. Derek and his fucking temper made sure of that.

Kate whirls and jams her cattle prod right into Derek’s balls with an intimate smile. Derek chokes, spends all his remaining breath in a scream, any words lost in the all-consuming pain. “Now,” she turns, charming smile back on her face as if the blood on her hands was nothing. “What makes you think there’s two of these animals here, kid?”

“Because the one causing the attacks spoke to me,” Stiles says, “and it sure as shit wasn’t _him_.” He jerks his head toward Derek without glancing at him, the first sign he’s given so far of being less than totally calm. He’s pale as milk, now, shaken.

“And he had blue eyes?” Chris asks.

“And what did the monster say to you, Stiles?” Kate is mocking now.

He gives her a pissed-off glare, “You’re underestimating them if you think of them as monsters,” he retorts. “They _think_ , lady. They _feel_. And the one I spoke to? Seemed to think it was friggin’ hilarious to set me up for his crimes, and sit back to watch the fun.”

“He told you this,” Chris says, sceptical.

Stiles shrugs. “Said he ‘hoped I survived this’ if you can believe that. _Asshole_.”

“So we have another werewolf in Beacon Hills,” Chris muses. He and Kate exchange a long look. As one, then, they turn to look at Derek, who drags his eyes away from Stiles and hopes he’s messed up enough that all his expressions just look different flavours of murderous.

“Let me guess,” he manages around his fangs, “You want an introduction.”

“That’s Derek Hale,” Stiles says suddenly.

Chris and Kate refocus on him. “So?” Kate says, impatient on the surface, but Derek can hear the wary uptick of her heart. _Careful, Stiles_ , he thinks, and wonders what he can do to get Kate’s focus off the teenager.

“ _Sooo-_ the Hale fire wasn’t an accident. _Obviously,_ ” Stiles retorts. His face is back to blank, all of a sudden he looks shockingly like the kid Derek picked up in the grocery store, heartsick and hiding it as best he can.

“I can’t imagine why you think that’s relevant to our current situation, sweetheart,” Kate says. But Chris looks uneasy again, glancing from Derek to the kid to Kate and back again. Derek has to wonder what the guy is thinking, how much he knows. If he’ll care.

“Sure, it can’t be relevant to our current situation that you’ve got one of the few survivors of an arson attack chained up in the basement of the scene of the crime,” Stiles retorts. “Sheriff’s kid, remember? I’m not an idiot, lady. If he’s one of your ‘beasts’, then there must have been others in that family. Who else survived the fire?”

Derek hangs there, panting, thinking as hard as he can through the thrumming burn under his skin, the slice in his gut. Stiles knows the answers to these questions – he’d _have_ to know by now. Marisol would have had that conversation on the drive to Beacon Hills, surely. So why is he so carefully leading Kate toward-

And now Kate’s smiling. “Oh I _do_ like you, Stiles,” she murmurs. “Just two others. An uncle and a sister. The sister is in Alaska, at last report.”

Derek flinches at the reminder. Laura. _Please, please stay away,_ he begs silently. Except that Derek had told her where he was going. She’s the alpha, and this is her territory. She won’t stay away.

“Yeah well the one who spoke to me was definitely a guy,” Stiles says, “older, by the sound of the voice.”

“Sounds like pretty strong evidence to me,” Kate drawls, and cocks her head at Chris. “How about you, brother dear?”

He nods once, clearly unhappy. There are wheels turning in that brain of his.

“Then how about we all go and find the beast together?” Kate says, and her smile is sharp and bright. She’s still just as beautiful as she was back then. Derek hates that. A soul that corrupt should show, somehow. There should be a _warning_.

“I don’t know,” Stiles says slowly, and hunches over protectively, hands in his pockets. “There’s that whole thing where I’m kind of a fugitive, plus my Dad is the Sheriff. I don’t think it’s a great idea for me to go wandering all over Beacon Hills.”

“Trust me, honey,” Kate says. “I can keep you under the radar.”

“Oh I’m sure you could,” Stiles agrees, and his heart is thudding hard now, he’s planning something, and Derek gathers what strength he has left and tries to clear his head, ready to help if he can. He has rage enough to break the fucking chains if he just gets one small chance, one break from the pain.

Stiles goes on, “I just don’t see the point. I mean, the guy has a plan, right? Why not let him complete it? It’s definitely going to bring him right to you, after all.”

“And why is that?” Kate says, eyes hard and voice light.

“Because he’s after whoever set the Hale fire,” Stiles says, and shrugs as if, _duh_. The words just roll out of him, sharp with certainty and so conversational Derek can hardly believe what he’s hearing. “He’s after _you_ , Kate. Which means if you just stand still long enough – and you’re on Hale land, which is a great start, congratulations on _that_ genius tactic – your monster will fall right in your lap.”

 _“Kate-”_ Chris barks out, and it’s a warning and a question all in one. His hand tightens on his gun. “How exactly do you know her name, kid?”

“You’re such a very bright young thing, aren’t you, Stiles,” she’s murmuring, ignoring her brother completely.

“Yeah, I’m awesome,” Stiles agrees flatly. “And no offense or anything,” he shrugs, “but you aren’t exactly my priority, lady. I mean I won’t help him kill you or anything, that guy is seriously the biggest fucking _asshole,_ but – I just want my life back. I just want him to pay for his crimes so my name is cleared and I can go home.”

“But surely you want to be just like your Daddy, don’t you Stiles?” Kate taunts, circling now. “Want a badge of your own, one day? Serve and protect and all that good stuff? You can’t honestly tell me you’re just going to let the big bad wolf get me.”

Stiles cocks an eyebrow and turns to keep her in view, “You’re... actually trying to sell the Red Riding Hood angle? Lady - you’re like, twenty years too old for that-” and it’s ridiculous, but that actually _stings_ her, Derek can tell, and he bites back a smile – “and also, you’re a fucking _hunter_. If you actually need help from a sixteen year old-”

There’s a muffled yell from outside and Kate stiffens, glances at her brother who heads for the stairs at a run, shotgun in his hands.

“Also,” Stiles smiles coldly at her, “I maybe should have mentioned that I’m a spark.”

She laughs then, cold and deadly. “Like that’s going to stop a _bullet_ ,” she mocks. “You think I won’t shoot a teenager? Think you’ll be safe because you’re the Sheriff’s kid? _Honey_ ,” she croons, and her gun is already in her hand, she points it straight at him, hand steady, “I’ve killed people a lot more innocent and a _lot_ more important than you.”

As the door at the top of the stairs opens Chris lets out a startled shout and there are shots, but not too many, and Derek swears he can hear familiar growls, faint with distance, but unmistakable. Other wolves. Ray and whoever else he brought, thank God.

“Oh, I’ll bet-” Stiles agrees. He raises his clenched hands in the classic ‘don’t shoot’ gesture, and he looks calm, but werewolf ears can hear the thundering of his heart, can detect a familiar scent. It means something is about to happen, and Derek rounds his shoulders and strains against the chains-

“-but I’m pretty sure that given a choice between me and Derek over there? You’ll be focused on Derek as the bigger threat,” Stiles finishes. He opens one hand and blows on the fistful of mountain ash inside it and it swirls in an arc, swift and sure, not toward Kate, not toward Derek, but toward the generator that is keeping the current running under Derek’s skin. In less than a second it has poured into the vents surrounding the motor and there’s a chug, a sputter, and as Kate stares at it, mouth open, the motor gently dies.

There’s a moment of sudden, shocking silence in the basement.

“Also?” Stiles says, voice hard, “We broke your mountain ash line twenty minutes ago, you murderous _bitch_.”

Then Derek flexes his arms with everything he has, powers it with pure hate. He hears the snap of metal behind him, and he _ROARS_.

Kate is already swinging the gun toward Derek, firing and firing and firing as he drops down from where she’d strung him up and the bullets are wolfsbane, he can feel the poison hit but he’s a _beast_ , he’s a _monster_ , he’s a born wolf and he has the strength to reach her, to close his clawed hand around her throat and rip and tear and squeeze. He hears the last three rounds leave the gun, feels them lodge low in his gut even as she twitches under his hand, eyes wide and shocked and for the first and only time Derek has ever seen – Kate Argent is _frightened_.

The pain of six wolfsbane rounds hit him all at once and Derek’s hand spasms open. He staggers back, two shaky half-steps and hits the ground like a falling redwood. There’s a familiar scent, welcome distraction from the red-bright pulse of Kate only a few feet away, and the warm stickiness on Derek’s still clawed hand.

He can hear shouts and shots outside, can scent clean night air and other wolves, not pack, but familiar.

“Shit,” Stiles breathes, and drops to his knees at Derek’s side, hands hovering over the wounds like he doesn’t know where to start. “Oh _shit_. But- you heal, right?”

Derek stares up at him, overwhelmed suddenly by the pain. He doesn’t really feel like talking right now.

“Or- wait, Terry said – are these those _wolfsbane_ rounds? Shit, of course they are, what else would a fucking hunter carry,” and he turns, frantic.

“She’ll be carrying extra,” a familiar voice says from the dark corner of the basement and Derek tenses even as Stiles startles, a panicked cry leaving his throat.

Peter emerges from the darkness like a story book villain. Stiles heartbeat takes off like a rabbit, a shaking hand clutches at Derek’s shirt.

“You need to find an unspent bullet,” Peter continues, still in lecture mode. “Open the casing, shake out the powdered wolfsbane,” and now he’s at Kate’s side, staring down at her with mad, glowing eyes.

Derek turns his head with difficulty. It looks like only one of his claws caught the jugular, and though the blood loss will get her in the end, right now the crushed windpipe is probably causing her the most grief. She’s dying, all right, but it’ll take a little time. Seems only just.

Kate gurgles something, blood still leaking steadily from her throat. Her feet are kicking in the dirt, probably trying to get away from Peter, an inch at a time. “Burn the powder,” Peter adds absently, “put it in the wounds.”

He drops to a slow crouch over Kate’s twitching body. Then he smiles down at her, blindingly, blissfully happy. “Oh, I’ve been _hoping_ for this,” he tells her softly. “The dreams I’ve had... and how nice of you to sing for me like this, Kate.” He closes his eyes and turns a rapturous face up to where the sky should be, like her choked gasps are the finest music and he’s teasing out the delicate strains, instrument by instrument.

Stiles is staring at Peter, mouth open, heart racing. He’s panicked, like he had been in the woods that night, listening to his father’s grief-stricken voice.

“Stiles,” Derek croaks.

The teen jumps at the sound of his voice. He drags his gaze away from Peter and his eyes widen, horrified, when they fall on Derek. Yeah. If he looks as bad as he feels... he must look pretty fucking bad.

“What a beautiful lullaby,” Peter croons madly to Kate as she gurgles and chokes on blood and terror. “I’ll sleep so well from now on.”

“Spare clips,” Derek grits out, ignoring the grotesquery in the corner, and twitches his non-bloody hand toward the west wall. His Dad would have really enjoyed this moment, he thinks dazedly. Always with the silver linings for Geoff Hale. Because the upside of having been chained up in the basement for over twenty four hours is that Derek knows where _everything_ is. He could also direct Stiles to the mini-fridge, spare batteries, and the spot where the Argents are keeping their car keys.

“I wanted to do it myself, of course,” Peter is saying in the background, “but I can hardly begrudge Derek the chance. He has almost as much reason to hate you as I do.”

Stiles stumbles toward the metal box and is fumbling at the catches when Derek hears a new, and utterly welcome voice.

“ _Derek_ , ohmygod, oh fuck, Derek-”

“M’okay,” he lies openly to his alpha who is flying across the room to his side.

“This color suits you, my dear,” Peter tells Kate, and holds up hands red with blood.

Laura chokes out a sharp noise and then whirls toward Stiles, probably smelling the wolfsbane coming from the half-open ammo case _. “Quick,”_ she snarls at him, and Stiles flinches back. Not Laura’s finest hour, considering Stiles is in the same room as the wolf that terrorised him and half of Beacon Hills.

But Laura’s hands are steady and strong, she steadfastly ignores Peter who is gathering up Kate’s still-twitching body, bridal-style. She breaks open three bullet casings even as she gives Stiles a flat glare and tells him to _find a fucking lighter or some matches, right fucking now_ -

“Go easy,” Derek murmurs. He flops a hand onto her leg. “S’had a hard day.”

She lets out a strangled laugh, “Unlike you, huh, little bro?”

“Had better,” he manages, and his eyes start to slide shut. _Shit_. That can’t be the last thing he ever says to Laura, if-

“Love you, Laur,” he slurs out. “M’sorry. _So_ sorry.”

“Derek, no,” she chokes, “ _fuck you_ Derek you do _not_ get to- _give me that_ -”

The last thing he carries into the black are the mixed scents of his favorite people, hot blood and... butane.

 

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	9. Beech Moon, waning, Beacon Hills

 

Stiles stares down at the sleeping figure on their spare bed. Then _spare bed_ echoes through his head again and glances up and around.

It’d seemed pretty damn far away for a while there. Living in small town Arizona, well, in the _woods_ , spending his days watching the pack house grow into an actual structure, and his nights sobbing like a baby for all that he’d lost-

He takes a deep, shaky breath. He’s back. He’s _back_. It might take a few more deluxe Stilinski hugs from Dad, and a Halo marathon or two with Scott before he believes it, but this _is_ real, and he is _here_ , and the monster is-

Well. One of the monsters is asleep in their spare bed, kind of. Another sort-of monster is downstairs cooking up a storm with Dad, and the other definite monster is somewhere in the woods, probably crooning insanities to Kate Argent’s cooling corpse.

Ugh. He shudders. Fucking creepy. And _that_ was Derek’s _uncle?_ Man, and Stiles had thought his second cousin Reuben was skeevy.

Then Derek sucks in a deep breath, rolls onto his side and opens his eyes all in one beautiful, fluid movement. For a moment he and Stiles stare blankly at one another, then Derek blinks again, rapidly, and starts to shove against the bed to sit upright.

“Woah there, Lassie,” Stiles said, hands out.

Derek freezes, then sends him a familiar glare. “Really, Stiles? Dog jokes?”

“Sorry,” he says, shamefaced. “Sometimes my mouth- well. You’ve met me.” He shrugs.

“Try it with Laura, I dare you,” Derek grits out, and Stiles shakes his head rapidly.

“Uh, no, that’s okay. Scary alpha lady-”

“She wouldn’t hurt you,” Derek says quickly, a look of horror blooming on his face as if he’d suddenly remembered Stiles’s well-earned PTSD.

Stiles manages a smile. “Yeah, well. Not all humans are like Kate, either,” he says. “So maybe we can both agree not to hold grudges against each others’ species just because of a couple of assholes?”

“I can do that,” Derek says softly.

There’s silence. Stiles can’t stop looking at Derek’s shirtless chest – always a thing of beauty, but right now he’s mostly obsessed with the slowly fading bullet wounds. There’s _so freaking many_ of them. And then there’s the way his Dad’s spare sweatpants really do not fit the ‘wolf.

Stiles’s mind keeps pinballing between _ohmygodsohot_ and _Derek could have died_.

He’d really thought the guy was going to just fade out, right there on the filthy floor of that fucking torture chamber.

“How are you-” Stiles begins haltingly just as Derek says, “Look, I’m sorry that I-”

They both stop. Then Stiles smiles faintly and says, “Stranded me on the side of the highway?”

“Yes,” Derek says. “That.”

“Apology accepted,” Stiles says. “And I’m sorry I said such a dumbass-”

“No, it’s okay,” Derek breaks in. “I knew you didn’t mean-”

“I’m sorry anyway.”

“Okay,” Derek says, and very nearly manages to smile. Lord help Stiles if the wolf ever actually puts some effort into it, because that gay crisis he’d been putting off? It has apparently happened in the background anyway, and is now more of a The Big Gay Adventure Awaits kind of deal.

Derek’s eyes drift away for a moment, then refocus on Stiles. “Laura’s cooking,” he says, kind of blankly.

“Uh... yeah?”

The faintest of smiles touch Derek’s face. “No, I mean, I really must have been at death’s door if _Laura_ is _cooking_.” He tilts his head a little.

There’s a beat, then Derek laughs, and Stiles realizes belatedly that he can hear her, and she can hear him, and he is using his recuperation time to rag on his sister. As if being an Adonis-like superhero with a soft spot for teen runaways wasn’t awesome enough, the guys is also a smartass.

Stiles is so screwed.

“Ripping on your alpha, huh?” he offers.

Derek half-shrugs. Then winces, one hand coming up to cup his ribs and the three circles clustered there.

“Laura said they’d take longer than usual to heal because of the wolfsbane and the, uh-” _torture and_ _near death_ , Stiles thinks. One look at the alpha’s face as she crouched over her brother had told Stiles just how close it had come.

He can’t imagine these two losing one another. They’ve already lost so freakin’ _much_.

Derek nods. There’s silence, then he says, “Are... you okay?”

Stiles blinks at him. “Me? Yeah, I’m – I didn’t get hurt or anything...”

“I meant,” Derek waves a hand uncomfortably. Right. Derek’s not the greatest communicator. How could Stiles have forgotten that?

“You mean general werewolf-related trauma?”

Derek grimaces.

“I’m okay,” he says, and shrugs.

Derek gives him a Look.

Stiles sighs. He looks down at picks at the seam of his jeans. “I’m... not bad. Some nightmares,” he finally says. “It’s good that Dad knows.”

“The Sheriff knows?” Derek asks blankly.

Stiles nods, “Laura told him. Only way to keep you out of hospital. You’re recuperating in our house, dude.”

Derek glances around him as if paying attention for the first time. Stiles supposes that knowing his alpha is nearby was reassurance enough. Certainly this Derek seems very different from the one Stiles met in Arizona. He’s just – easier in his own skin.

After a moment Stiles adds, “I’m trying to convince Laura to let me tell Scott.”

“Your... friend that was attacked. By Peter,” Derek says.

Stiles nods. “He’s okay, though. Got a wicked scar on his side, and a Mom that’s going ballistic if he’s not at home like, right on time, but...”

“Does he know why you ran?” Derek asks.

Stiles nods and looks away again. That bit is the worst. The absolute fucking worst. Trying to explain to Scott that he’d had no choice. And Scott doesn’t even seem mad about it. His faith in Stiles is just – ugh. What he wouldn’t give for some honest blame. For a punch in the face.

“It’ll get better,” Derek says.

Stiles’s eyes fly to meet his.

“Telling Laura,” Derek swallows. “How the fire- what I did-” He looks away. “It was the hardest thing. _So_ fucking hard. But. It helped.”

“You didn’t do anything,” Stiles says, quiet but fierce. “That was all _her_ , and she was a fucking psycho. You know that, right?”

There’s silence for a while, then Derek nods shakily. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I know, but.” He shrugs helplessly, “I let her in, you know?”

Stiles sighs. “Yeah.” He thinks about _Hey Scott, c’mon, let’s go driving in the woods, it’ll be fun, dude we won’t even get out of the car._ “Yeah,” he says heavily. “I know.”

There’s a long silence, and then even Stiles’s human ears can hear the sound of plates and cutlery being set out on the table downstairs. “Dinner’s ready,” he manages, and Derek smiles a little.

Stiles hovers while Derek levers himself upright, and unashamedly watches as Derek drags a shirt on over all that heavenly flesh. As the beta comes toward him, headed for the door, Stiles swallows hard and says, “You guys live in New York, huh?”

Derek pauses at his side, close enough that their shoulders brush. Stiles has a brief moment to wonder what the older man can smell on him right now and then he blurts out, “I’m applying to NYU and Columbia.”

Derek goes still. “Yeah?” he says, and his voice is unreadable.

“Yeah,” Stiles husks out. His heart is pounding. “So... hopefully in two years I’ll be on the East Coast.”

Derek is staring at the floor, face concealed, but he hasn’t shifted away from Stiles, or moved past him to the open door.

“It’d be good to have – _friends_ there.” And then he stops because, fuck, he’s not even sure what he wants to say. He’s _sixteen_ , he’s recently discovering a whole other aspect to his sexuality, and he’s pretty fucking traumatised, truth be told. Plus, he remembers in a rush, Derek’s sister is downstairs, and can probably hear everything they’re saying. He closes his eyes in mortification and his face feels like it’s on _fire_.

But none of that matters, because for some reason, he can’t let Derek walk out that door without saying – something. He gropes blindly for words, nothing will come – how’s that for fucking irony? Stiles is lost for words.

And then warm fingers close around his hand, gripping firm but not too tight.

“It is,” Derek says, voice low. “It’s good to have friends when you’re in a strange place.”

Stiles breathes in and out, shaky. He squeezes Derek’s hand and risks a glance sideways. Derek is watching him, eyes unreadable, even as close as they are, sharing space, sharing breath.

“You’re not gonna forget me, then?” he asks, voice small.

“Not possible,” Derek says steadily, without a second’s hesitation.

“Promise?”

“I swear,” Derek says. For a moment they just stare at each other. And then Derek leans in slowly, presses his mouth to Stiles’s in a warm, firm kiss that goes on long enough for Stiles’s legs to start shaking, for his hands to fly out and grasp Derek’s waist to steady himself.

Derek pulls back, just a little, and stares straight into Stiles’s eyes. “I swear,” but this time it sounds a lot like _I’ll wait_.

“ _Oh.”_ He blinks a few times. A few times more. Derek’s eyes are really fucking mesmerising. “Okay,” Stiles finally manages, a little breathless. His hands tighten on Derek’s waist for a second, then he forces himself to let go. “I, uh, believe you.”

Derek smiles at him then, slow and warm and fond, with a light in his eyes that’s entirely new. It’s something Stiles has never seen, not in all the weeks they’ve known each other, and he is just completely defenceless against it. His heart turns clean over in his chest and he thinks dimly _Goodbye, Lydia_.

“Come on,” Derek says, and jerks his head. “I want to meet your Dad.”

Stiles let out a shuddering breath and watches Derek walk ahead of him down the hall. Stiles is hard as a rock, which will hopefully disappear on the walk downstairs, but he’s pretty sure it’ll take longer than that for his hands to stop shaking.

Of course, it’s the stupid fucking grin all over his face that’s really going to get his Dad asking questions.

 

 

 

T H E   E N D

**Author's Note:**

> auroradream: I just wanted to thank unpossible for thinking of me for this amazing story. This is my second year at pod_together but my first year recording for it. It was a journey, with a lot of stops and starts for me, but it was fantastic! The two songs used are Your Ex Lover is Dead by STARS and I See Fire sung by Ed Sheeran from Th Hobbit. Both songs really speak to the story and I would have never known about without unpossible wanting them. 
> 
> I'd also like to thank the mods of pod_together for putting this whole thing together and for being amazing!
> 
> unpossible: I am so grateful to auroradream for taking me on! I'm a newbie to pod_together (until this year) and I *may* have bitten off a tiny bit more than I can chew... which is why it's so awesome she came to my rescue.


End file.
